


Hell Bound

by demodocus



Series: In the Wake of Hellfire [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Hurt Dean Winchester, Hurt Sam Winchester, Mark of Cain (Supernatural), Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Season 9 AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-24 16:27:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 28,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21640930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/demodocus/pseuds/demodocus
Summary: *Sequel to Hell Adjacent*Alastair is still on the loose, and the Winchesters have no idea -- but ignorance isn't always bliss. Lines blur between allies and enemies, but at least Sam and Dean can trust each other. Right?Or, Gadreel heals Sam in the hospital. How season 9 might have progressed otherwise, with a few literary... liberties taken.
Series: In the Wake of Hellfire [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1560061
Comments: 80
Kudos: 47





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys! If you're new, I strongly advise you go read the first fic in this series (Hell Adjacent) -- this one might not make a whole lot of sense otherwise. Also, if you're unfamiliar with episode 9x01 I Think I'm Gonna Like it Here, I recommend you go watch that too. 
> 
> I'll update tags as I go along, so let me know if you think of something that might be good to add! Enjoy!

5 MONTHS AGO

Crowley sorted through the stack of documents on his desk, letting out a bored puff of air. _Crossroads deal confirmation; dungeon admittance form; appeal for the claim on Justin Bieber’s soul to get rejected on grounds that he’s “too annoying”; letter from, oh look, Congress, asking for yet another favor..._

He picked up his Conway Stewart Teal Westminster pen -- the result of a rather unorthodox crossroads deal -- and nearly dropped it at the reverberating thud of the throne room doors slamming open. 

“Careful! That’s polished mahogany!” Crowley shouted, annoyance quickly overtaking his initial surprise. He reached for the next paper without looking up, only freezing at the soft hiss of a knife sliding through the air before pinning his form to the table. He looked up with a growl on his tongue, only to swallow it at recognizing who had dared to interrupt his work.

“Something to say, Crowley?” said the slim brunette standing in the doorway, idly twirling a second knife with slender fingers. 

“Bela,” Crowley greeted, setting down his pen with a thin smile. “What a wonderful surprise.”

She sauntered toward him, teeth gleaming in the dim lighting as she spoke. “Weren’t you expecting me?”

“Not quite,” Crowley retorted casually, narrowing his eyes when he was unable to easily glimpse Bela’s true form behind her meatsuit. She was hiding. Interesting. “Only one of my demons managed to report back to me from the plant. Looks like a massacre, your master included. We assumed you dead.”

“Yes, well,” she said, eyes rolling back white as she nonchalantly pulled her knife from his desk. “Presumption never did anyone any favors.”

Crowley sat up in his chair, suppressing a shiver of fear that raced up his spine. “The Winchesters killed the wrong demon.” 

“Yes,” Alastair remarked with a sigh, eyes reverting to his host’s natural hazel. “So predictable, those Winchesters. They never see it coming.”

PRESENT

Dean’s eyes flickered anxiously to where the angel - whose name, he’d discovered, was Ezekiel - was resting his hand on Sam’s hospital gown-covered chest. Resting too long, without any visible signs of improvement. “You still able to cure things? After the fall?”

“Yes, I should be, but… he’s so weak.”

Dean struggled to contain the panic and fury that threatened to overtake him at the angel’s words, tried to pretend that “weak” didn’t mean _almost dead._ He wanted to shake this Ezekiel guy into skipping the pleasantries and fixing Sam, but he could tell just by looking at him that he wasn’t firing on all cylinders either. He claimed to have been injured in the fall, and with how easily he’d been taken down for the count earlier, Dean believed him. But since he couldn’t see any damage, he could only assume Ezekiel’s grace had taken the hit. 

He cradled his head in his hands. _God,_ he was so tired. Tired of the trials, of worrying about Sam, of losing friends, of the goddamn world ending. But none of that mattered until Sam was okay. _Please, let Sam be okay._

A shrill ring accompanied by a vibration in his pocket shook Dean from his thoughts, and he flipped open the burner phone as if on autopilot. _Cas_ , the screen stated casually _._ Cas, who last he’d heard, had been working on the angel trials -- right up until the angels fell. He should have thought to call him _hours_ ago. 

Dean pushed himself to his feet to make his way out of the room, but hesitated at the door. He turned to gesture between Ezekiel and his broken brother, eyes lingering on all the tubes and wires and -- _God, this was too much._ “Just do your best, alright? I gotta take this.”

Without waiting for a response, Dean exited into the hallway.

///

“Look, get your ass to the bunker. _Alone._ You hear me?”

 _“Dean --”_ Cas protested.

“Go, Cas!” Dean commanded as he hung up. He closed his eyes and prayed Cas would have some sense and do as he said for once, then put the earth shattering revelation that Cas was human -- _human_ \-- on the backburner. He had more immediate issues.

The walls, the floor, the damn potted plants -- everything had started shaking like they were in Northridge, California in 1994. Dean pocketed his phone and pulled out his angel blade as he stumble-ran back down the hallway, pushing off of walls and dodging falling light fixtures in a desperate attempt to remain upright.

“One of yours?” Dean asked, closing the door to Sam’s room firmly behind him. 

Ezekiel turned from where he’d been peering out the window. “Trying to secure a vessel. We need to move.”

Dean glanced at Sam’s vulnerable form, then tore his eyes away to keep himself from _losing his fucking shit._ He shook his head vehemently. “No. No, if we move him, he dies.”

“If we stay, we could all die,” Ezekiel responded solemnly.

Dean looked back at Sam, then searched desperately around the room, looking for something, anything that would help them -- and froze when his eyes alighted on a pack of Expo markers sitting innocently next to a small white board in the corner. _Perfect._

///

Dean added a few hurried touches to his work, then tossed the used marker to the side. If they got out alive, he’d buy twenty packs to replace it. “You gonna be okay with these?” 

What he really meant was _“Are you gonna be able to heal Sam with all this warding,”_ but Ezekiel seemed to get his meaning. “I’ll manage,” he said, and Dean decided to believe him, even knowing how weak the angel already was. _Christ, this better work._

Ezekiel’s already-blank expression suddenly emptied, and Dean had been around angels long enough to know what apprehension looked like. Dread curdled in his gut as the hospital seemed to shake impossibly harder. 

“What is it?”

Ezekiel met his eyes. “They’re here.”

A high-pitched whine crept in alongside the rumbling of the hospital even as Ezekiel spoke. Dean flicked his eyes up at the ceiling as he backed towards the door. The timing wasn’t great, but for once, it could be worse. At least the warding was up. 

“Okay,” he said, steeling himself as he reached for the door handle. “Do not open this door for anybody but me.” He met Ezekiel’s eyes and pointed at Sam. “Save him, you hear me?”

The hallway was chaos. Dean shut the door behind him as he took in the scene, trying to ignore the screaming patients and hospital staff even as his eyes alighted on a fire alarm. _Bingo._

The ring of the alarm was a dull countermelody in the ear-splitting symphony of angelic presence, which had intensified past the glass-breaking point as Dean ran down the hallway. He felt himself yell at everyone to get out, thankful that they complied even if he could hardly hear himself. 

Dean watched everyone drain from the building, hoping against hope that everyone had the sense to get out, except -- there. _Damn it._

He offered a hand to the woman lying on the ground, shattered glass peppering her sensible green sweater. He caught a glance of her passive-but-familiar face, and recognized her as the grief counselor who’d visited him earlier. Kim… Schwartz, Schortz, something like that. “Hey, you gotta get out of here. Come on.” 

She stood up easily enough, wordlessly dusting glass off herself as Dean turned towards the exit. Where a trucker (who reminded him inexplicably of Sonny Pruitt) was waiting for him with an angel blade. Now _that_ was perfect timing. 

“Stay behind me,” he said to the grief counselor, before he unsheathed his angel blade and turned to face his opponent.

But then his wrist was wrenched backward and his elbow pulled around, and the next thing he knew he was being held weaponless up in the air. Oh, and yeah, by his throat. So he couldn’t breathe. 

The sensible grief counselor smirked up at him. “Or not.”

///

The next few minutes were a blur of too little oxygen and too much pain, because angels apparently could only get their party on by beating the crap out of decent-looking guys. _God,_ why did they always go for the face?

Dean was pulled from his internal rant when Sonny and Not-Kim (Dean didn’t really know what else to call them at this point) roughly dumped him in the middle of the hall, which, _ouch_. He blinked up at his nearly identical surroundings and had to wonder what the point was in dragging him around in the first place, unless it was to make his jeans ride up his ass. 

“Let me make this easy,” Not-Kim growled. “Tell me where Castiel is, or your brother’s gonna wish he were dead.”

She nodded at the door they’d dumped Dean next to, and he followed her gaze. Oh. That was why.

He lifted his head off the ground to glare at her, unable to do much else. “Yeah, good luck getting past the warding.”

She smiled again -- _wow_ that was unnerving, no wonder everybody left the building so quick -- and curled her fists in his shirt to heft him off the ground. “But we will. And when we do, I’m gonna strip off all his skin, and you’re gonna watch.”

Dean flicked his eyes behind her, to where Sonny was standing with a fire emergency axe. He met her eyes again, forcing his cracked and bleeding lips into a smirk of his own. “Bite me.” 

The angel stared at him impassively for a moment, before letting go of him and landing a punch to his face simultaneously. Dean skidded across the floor, feeling shards of glass cut into his hands and face even as his bruised (broken?) ribs screamed from the impact. Worrying, but it didn’t matter right then. What mattered was getting these douchebags away from his comatose brother.

He pushed the wheeze out as a laugh, slowly manuvering his hands underneath him. “Anybody ever tell you you hit like an angel?”

Her response was a well-placed kick to his jaw that sent him flying onto his back, but he didn’t get a chance to slip in any clever verbal comebacks this time. There was another kick. And another. Then a punch. Distantly, he could hear the fire axe smashing against the solid wood of Sam’s door. A hit to his eye slammed his head against the ground, and then he was being picked up and tossed into a wall. Dean’s blood followed him as he slid down to the ground, and he felt his flask of holy water dig painfully into his hip when he landed in a heap on the ground. A flask that would be completely useless against—

Wait.

He was such a fucking idiot.

Not-Kim’s attacks started to slow, like she was really taking her time playing with him now. Dean felt the spark of an idea clear the fog in the back of his skull, and he began slowly dragging himself down the hall, using the wall for support as he tried to subtly put some distance between himself and the angel.

Said angel glanced at her partner, who, despite the warding, had finally started chipping away at the wood of the door. He hadn’t punctured it yet, but Dean didn’t have much time. “We’ll have your brother soon, Dean. You can still take the easy way out.”

“Yeah, I’ll pass,” Dean said, discreetly reaching into his jacket for the holy water. Holy water that had been dumped out and replaced with holy oil as a precaution before he’d interrogated Ezekiel. On a goddamned whim. 

The angel was still facing her partner -- probably critiquing his warded-door chopping skills, the freak -- when Dean managed to shakily haul himself to his feet. He took a few more steps backward and unscrewed the lid of the flask. By the time Not-Kim had turned around and made an emotionally constipated face at him, he was halfway through his line of holy oil. 

The angel started to advance on him, stalking towards him with her plain flats making less-than-threatening slaps against the tiles as she walked. Dean finished the wall-to-wall line of holy oil and drew out his lighter, feeling sweat -- from pain and exhaustion and nerves and who knew what else -- beading across his brow. 

And of course, it didn’t light on the first try. Or the third.

He only had a matter of seconds left when the lighter finally produced a flame. Dean dropped it onto the holy oil without hesitation, and a wall of fire sprung up between him and Not-Kim, who was just feet away. 

The angel’s hands curled into fists, turning her knuckles white. “Bad move, Dean,” she snarled. “Now we’re all alone with your brother over here.” 

Dean smiled back. “That’s where you’re wrong, lady,” Dean said, stooping to pick up one of the angels’ blades, left thoughtlessly behind on the ground after their tussle earlier. So irresponsible. “This is the best move I’ve made all day.”

The angel must’ve still been acclimating herself to her vessel, because she didn’t move nearly fast enough to get out of the way when Dean threw the blade at her. Granted, his aim was a little off, but Dean considered the fact that he was even able to stand up right then impressive.

There was a grotesquely fleshy _thunk!_ as the blade embedded itself in Not-Kim’s shoulder. She reeled backwards, screeching in pain, which of course prompted Sonny to turn his attention from Sam’s door to Dean. He hefted the fire axe angrily, and Dean looked around the floor as frantically as his spinning head would let him. Shit, he thought he’d seen another dropped angel blade around here somewhere--

A sputtering gasp interrupted his thoughts, and he looked up to see Ezekiel holding the other angel up against the wall by the throat. Dean didn’t spare a second to think how he missed Ezekiel leaving the room; neither of the angels had weapons, but Ezekiel’s arms were shaking with strain, and Dean knew they wouldn’t have the upper hand for long.

Not-Kim was still writhing on the ground, and from the intense pain expressed in her human face, he’d either hit and angelic artery, or she’d been injured in the fall, too. Dean really couldn’t care less either way. He stalked over to her, making sure to carefully step over the fire (he was pretty sure he singed off half his leg hairs anyway), and landed a solid kick to her abdomen. She moaned in pain.

“Sorry, sweetheart. You had that one coming.” Then he reached down and yanked the angel blade out of her shoulder. 

If all the glass in the hallway hadn’t already been broken, the resulting scream would have shattered it. Dean winced and stumbled, some distant part of his brain wondering if he’d need hearing aids after this whole experience.

Sonny was still desperately trying to escape Ezekiel’s grip -- more out of a lack of control than a need for air -- and Ezekiel was weakening. Dean hurried toward them, doing his best to move quickly even as his legs attempted to buckle with every step. All that mattered was getting there in time: Ezekiel was Sam’s only hope, and his grace had been injured in the fall already.

His _grace._

Dean had finally reached the pair, and he raised the angel blade -- only instead of going for the heart or throat, he stabbed it through a soft spot right above Sonny’s elbow, pinning him to the wall. Sonny grunted and writhed, but Ezekiel was able to relax his hold and step back, trembling with exhaustion. He furrowed his brow. “Why didn’t you--”

“I had a better idea,” Dean interrupted. “How about we put all their wasted grace to use, huh?”

Ezekiel shook his head. “I’m afraid I do not understand.”

“Look man, you’re wiped. You were hurt in the fall or whatever, and now you’re rolling close to a zero on grace, right?” Ezekiel nodded hesitantly, and Dean continued, “You gotta recharge. Well, here’s your five hour energy.”

Ezekiel followed Dean’s pointed finger to Sonny, and his face paled. “No. No, I -- that’s cannibalism!”

Dean clenched his teeth, eyeing both other angels to make sure they weren’t trying anything funny. They didn’t have a lot of time, here. “If you don’t, you won’t be able to help anyone, maybe not even yourself.”

Ezekiel still looked hesitant, and Dean rolled his eyes. “I’ll just kill them, otherwise, so are you gonna let their grace go to waste or not?"

Swallowing, Ezekiel finally met his eyes and nodded. Dean couldn’t read his expression, and the angel turned quickly away before he could try.

Dean watched as Ezekiel mechanically pulled the blade from Sonny’s shoulder, and, ignoring the angel’s outraged cries, drew it across his throat with a skilled precision. The grace floated through the air between them, light and wispy but somehow painful to look at in its small brightness. Ezekiel shuddered and closed his eyes as he absorbed the power, his irises flaring a radiant blue beneath his lids for an instant before dulling.

Dean stepped out of Ezekiel’s way as he moved toward Not-Kim, his strides already smoother, more powerful. More reminiscent of an angel.

As Ezekiel drained the other angel’s grace, Dean wondered what would become of Kim Schortz. She was practically done in as soon as she’d been possessed -- angels were becoming cruder and cruder in their methods of possession, often leaving little behind if anything at all. But she’d been kind to him, and Dean allowed himself a moment to wish things could’ve turned out differently. 

Not-Kim had stopped whimpering a while ago, and Ezekiel finally pressed his fingers to her throat, sealing the opening he’d drawn grace from. Then he stood slowly, his back to Dean, before turning to face him.

Dean blinked as Ezekiel’s eyes flared even brighter than before, power seeming to come off of him in static waves. The angel looked down at himself, curling and uncurling his fist with a look akin to awe. 

He looked up again, something in his expression fortifying, steadying. “Dean Winchester,” Ezekiel said, “I believe I can heal your brother.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! I can't believe it took me like 6 months to get around to writing this! The next chapter won't take NEARLY as long, I swear. I hope to post on a weekly or biweekly basis, but we'll see how that goes.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reminder that this fic probably won't make sense unless you've read Hell Adjacent -- and rewatching the first episode of season 9 might clear some stuff up if you haven't seen it in a while. Enjoy!

Dean fidgeted nervously as he watched Ezekiel, who was sitting next to Sam with his softly-glowing palm resting lightly on his forehead. Neither of them had moved for what seemed like hours.

It was nearing mid-afternoon, but Dean’s sense of time was so skewed he had no idea what day it was. It seemed impossible that everything that happened between the angels falling and then had happened within a twenty-four hour period, but it likely had, which didn’t help his confusion any. Either way, they needed to hurry. Dean would fight tooth and claw for a chance for his brother to be healed, but soon the medical personnel and the fire department would come back to check the building, and who knew what would happen then.

Dean shifted in his hard plastic chair again, this time more from discomfort than nerves. Every bone in his body throbbed to some indiscernible rhythm, and his skin itched with dried blood. Ezekiel had asked if he wanted to be healed, but Dean turned him down hard and flat -- Ezekiel didn’t have any extra grace to waste on him. He would survive. Sam wouldn’t.

Dean shifted his gaze from the angel to his brother, pushing back a wave of helplessness that tried to sweep over him. That’s all he’d been these last few months. _Helpless._ Ever since the first trial, when he failed at killing that stupid hellhound, even though he’d killed dozens of the damn things in Purgatory. 

Even just now, he’d gotten his ass handed to him on a plate by two angels -- two angels who’d been thrown from heaven and were barely adjusted to their vessels. If it weren’t for Ezekiel ignoring him and leaving Sam’s side, he would be just another piece of ugly modern art in the hospital hallway.

He knew he was off his game, and had been for a while. He just didn’t want to think about why. 

Dean lowered his head into his hands, and gave himself whiplash raising it again as Sam gasped. Dean’s eyes raked over his brother and the monitors surrounding him, heart lifting at the less-mechanical rise and fall of his chest -- only to drop when Sam still didn’t open his eyes, vitals hardly improved.

Ezekiel’s eyes, on the other hand, were wide open, and his mouth was set in a grim line. 

Dean opened his mouth to ask what was going on when the angel beat him to it. “You should see this,” he said, and before Dean could protest, Ezekiel pressed two fingers to his forehead and the world melted away. 

///

They were in a familiar but rustic cabin. Everything in the room -- the aging wood floors, the molding cabinets and bookshelves, the dusty curtains -- held a shimmering, dreamlike quality to it, as if trying to focus on any one thing for too long would cause it to disappear. 

Dean ignored it all and zeroed in on the two figures seated in armchairs in front of a crackling fire.

“I need to know one thing,” Sam was saying, and _God_ if it wasn’t good to see him sitting there looking alive and healthy, even if they were only in his head. But Sam’s words held a weight to them, and Dean suddenly became aware of a chilly undercurrent in the room, like a heavy sheet was smothering the peaceful atmosphere.

“Yes?” the second figure responded, and Dean reluctantly pulled his eyes from his brother to -- _Death._

The realization crashed over him like a bucket of ice water. Death had come to reap Sam. It couldn’t have been an ordinary reaper, because that would’ve been too goddamn easy.

Sam leaned forward to face the cosmic entity, fear the farthest thing from his expression even as Dean felt he could drown in it. “If I go with you, can you promise me that this time, it will be final?”

_No no no no no_

Sam was saying something else, but it couldn’t be heard over the ringing in Dean’s ears. This wasn’t right, Sam couldn’t -- he wouldn’t --

“I can promise that,” Death said, and the scene washed away.

///

Dean gasped as Ezekiel removed his hand, and he stared down at his little brother. His little brother who wanted to _die_ _and not come back._

“What are you doing, Sam?” Dean whispered.

“As you can see, there’s not much time,” Ezekiel stated solemnly.

Dean gave himself a hard mental shake, locking back into the situation. “So? Just heal him, we’ll hash out his personal issues later!”

“It’s not that simple,” Ezekiel argued. “I can heal him, yes, but the damage isn’t just to his body; it’s also to his soul. In order for me to heal him fully, the spirit must be willing.”

Dean closed his eyes, forcing himself to think around pain and exhaustion and whatever the hell Sam was doing. He just needed to convince Sam to live, that was all. He just needed to _talk_ to him.

“Can you get me in there?” Dean asked, opening his eyes. 

Ezekiel furrowed his brow. “Yes, I suppose I can. But remember, there’s not much time. If Sam passes while you are there, I may not be able to pull you out.”

“It doesn’t matter,” Dean said, stepping up next to Sam. Nothing would matter if this didn’t work. “I can do it.”

Ezekiel’s expression became impossibly more somber. “As you wish.”

///

“It’s time, Sam. Shall we?”

Sam didn’t hesitate. He stood up to follow Death, and he felt something… something like peace. Like finality.

He’d been fighting for so long. Lilith, Lucifer, Hell, the Trials -- each had worn him down, and even when he thought he was doing the right thing, people still got hurt. But he’d gone down doing something good this time, or _trying_ to, at least, and it was time to stay down.

“Hold on.”

Sam turned, less shocked than maybe he should be to find Dean standing in the center of the room, looking just as he had before he’d dissipated in front of this very cabin. _Dissipated._ As in, _how the hell was he here?_ “Dean?”

Dean offered him a tired smile. “It’s okay, Sam.” But the smile slipped away when Dean turned to Death, who looked mildly annoyed at the interruption. “I, uh, would’ve brought cronuts, but time is short, so…”

Something flashed in Death’s ancient gaze, but before Sam could make out what it was, he was stepping aside. “By all means.”

“What’s going on?” Sam demanded, his surprise quickly replaced with anger. Why couldn’t Dean have just stayed away? 

“I found a plan,” Dean offered.

Sam shook his head. The negotiation period was over, as far as he was concerned. He was tired of this life, and now he had an out -- and a decent one at that. “It’s too late. I’m going.” 

“No, listen to me --” 

“Why are you even here?” Sam cut in angrily. “I’m not fighting this anymore.” 

“You have to fight this!” Dean yelled. He stood there for a moment, breath heaving, his eyes glistening with moisture. “I can fix this, okay? But not if you shut me out,” Dean pleaded.

Sam turned to Death, who watched them impassively. Dean followed his gaze, adding desperately, “It’s not his time.”

“That’s for Sam to decide,” Death stated, giving Sam a pointed look.

Sam furrowed his brows, thoughts racing inside his head. This Dean was too real, too desperate, not in tune enough with the situation -- this wasn’t some distant aspect of his subconscious. This was his brother. He’d gotten in his head somehow, and now he wanted Sam to what? Turn down Death himself? Become a vengeful spirit?

“Sam, listen to me,” Dean implored. “I found an angel. He can heal you, but we need your help. If you aren’t willing to fight, then we can’t save you.”

 _I can’t help you if you ain’t willing to fight for yourself,_ the Dean in his mind had said, and Sam could practically feel his brother’s fists in his jacket collar, trying frantically to shake some sense into him.

“I made you a promise in that church,” Dean continued, voice thin and strained, like it was on the verge of cracking. “You and me, come whatever. Well hell if this ain’t whatever. But you gotta let me in, man, you gotta let me help.”

This was Dean at his weakest, most vulnerable, stripped of all defenses, begging him to choose life. But Sam looked over at Death once more, and still he hesitated. 

“There ain’t no me if there ain’t no you.”

Sam remembered then with painful clarity that with Dean, it was all about reading between the lines. Even now, as he was laying his soul bare, there was simpler meaning to be found.

_We’re in this together._

_I’ll do anything to keep you alive._

_You’re the reason I’m alive._

A hundred memories flitted through his mind at once, like images from a filmstrip projector. They somehow remained distinct, despite the speed at which Sam saw them all, and his best and worst memories of the last eight years assaulted him one after another after another --

_Dean after Dad’s death, jamming his gun in his back pocket and telling Sam he doesn’t have the will to carry on when Sam has the Croatoan virus._

_Sam waking up on a dirty mattress with a fresh scar on his back, oblivious to his brother’s deal._

_Sam lunging at Dean with a knife in another nondescript motel room, seconds before pulling him into a bone crushing hug when he learns his brother is back from the dead._

_Dean brokenly telling a soulless Sam what he went through in his abscence, never giving up on looking for a way to get his brother out of Hell._

_Sam regaining his soul, unable to muster any anger when he finds out what his brother did to get it back._

_Dean tackling Sam upon entering Rufus’ cabin, spraying him with holy water and cutting him with a silver knife before they properly reunite for the first time in a year._

And Sam understands. He understands so much it hurts. _I keep you living. You keep me living. Without you, I can’t live._

If he were to abandon his brother now, it would be worse than Dean’s demon deal, worse than his own jump into the Pit -- Dean had been saving him, and he’d been saving the world. 

This time, he was only really leaving for himself. 

His brother still needed him. And maybe there were other people out there who needed him too, people he could _help._ Maybe he could still do some good in the world. 

Sam closed his eyes, feeling the wetness in them as he opened them to meet Dean’s. “What do I do?”

Dean smiled shakily at him, clasping a hand against his jaw in a gesture reminiscent of the one Sam had given the Dean in his head earlier. “That’s it, man. You just gotta want it, and that’s it.”

Sam nodded, returning Dean’s weak smile with one of his own. “Okay, then.”

Death let out a sigh, and before either of them could turn to face him, the cabin fell away.

///

All of the monitors were silent, their blank screens staring up at him from beside Sam’s bed. Dean blinked and rubbed his eyes, trying to make the connection between the somewhat-suicidal yet passionate brother he’d just talked to and the one lying limpy beside him. 

“It worked,” Ezekiel said. Dean startled at the sound, looking up at the weary angel -- who, he realized, was probably the cause of the dead monitors. 

There was a beat as Dean processed what Ezekiel had said, and then he wanted to protest that _no,_ it definitely _didn’t work_ because Sam was still--

“Dean?"

Dean’s breath caught, and he turned to find Sam’s eyes open, his expression scrunched in that weird way that meant he was either confused or really hated whatever bad joke Dean had just made. He looked awful, sure, but _not dying_ was a big enough mark in the win column for now; everything else went on the back burner, as far as Dean was concerned. 

Dean reached out to clasp Sam’s forearm, grinning at him like a maniac. “It’s good to have you back, dude.”

Sam’s face unscrunched a little in concern. “What the hell happened to your face?”

And Dean had to choke back what could’ve been either a laugh or a sob or some combination of both, because of _course_ that was the first thing Sam asked about. 

“We need to leave,” Ezekiel stated before Dean could respond with some half-hearted sarcasm. The angel was peering past drawn-back curtains into the parking lot, eyebrows pulled together as he surveyed the area. “More of my brethren could arrive at any moment.”

“And emergency responders might be here already,” Dean remembered. He faced Sam. “Can you walk?”

///

The orderly made his way carefully through the abandoned hospital hallway, stepping carefully around shattered glass to avoid making any noise. As he reached the end, he peered around the corner and caught a glimpse of three figures boarding the elevator, two of them supporting each other and the third walking stiffly, almost inhumanly. 

He quickly stepped back around the corner when the stiff-legged one turned around, and he waited for the _ding!_ of the elevator doors closing to pull out his cell phone. 

“It’s me,” the orderly started. “I just checked their car. They have Crowley.” A pause. “No, there were no signs of my interference.”

A smile crept over his face at the response. “Of course. I’ll retrieve her immediately.” He ended the call and turned to walk away.

When he blinked, his eyes opened black. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm I wonder who that demon was talking to at the end there... I guess we'll have to wait and see! 
> 
> I’ve always thought it was unrealistic that Gadreel couldn't heal Sam but he could catapult Dean into Sam’s mind with zero effort -- but who knows, maybe that was just part of his master plot. Anyway, I wanted to keep the part in Sam's head because it was such a good brother moment, so there it is, plus a few minor modifications. And I know this chapter was a little bit shorter, but now that we've gotten some canon-ish stuff out of the way, we'll be moving into more AU territory, so expect there to be some juicer stuff coming :)
> 
> PS: I know I said I'd try to post biweekly, but midterms are coming up so that's not looking very likely -- but I'll do my best!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Just a few reminders before you read -- if you haven't recently watched seasons eight and nine, keep in mind that Abaddon used to fight alongside Cain as knights of hell, and she has like a weird obsession with making him fight with her again -- that information will come in handy. Also, I have no idea where the hospital they saved Sam in is in relation to the Bunker, so these travel times are complete guesses. Alright, happy reading!

_Tap. Tap. Tap._

Slender fingers rapped the phone lightly against the arm of the chair, over and over. Suddenly Alastair sighed, glancing again at the ornate hands of the grandfather clock in the corner of the throne room. Crowley always did have such gaudy taste; no appreciation for the simple, that one. 

Regardless, he still needed the supposed-king where he could use him. One needed all their pieces lined up before they began a game, after all.

Finally, exactly forty-three minutes after the last call -- Alastair prided himself in his impeccable sense of time -- the throne room doors swung open. He tossed the phone to the side as he stood. “Took you long enough.”

The orderly’s skin stretched into an unbecoming smirk. “We had to restore Josie Sands’ body first. The Winchesters really did a number on her meat--”

The rest of the demon’s words were cut off as his feet left the ground, an invisible force slamming him into a nearby wall. He let out a low groan.

“Oh, shut up.” The redhead who followed him in waved her hand, and the demon flew into a distant corner out of sight. She straightened her leather jacket, turning to eye Alastair up and down. “Interesting skin you’ve got there.”

Alastair shrugged with a grin. “Oh, you know me. I’m not particular.”

“Well, as much as I love running into old friends, care to tell me what all this is about? I’m not a fan of being fetched by errand boys,” Abaddon said, eyeing the far corner with disgust.

“You know, I heard through the grapevine that you want a seat on the throne,” Alastair remarked, sauntering over to the pillar where he kept one of his pet projects tied up. Ah, Leonarda Cianciulli, the Soap-Maker of Correggio. He especially liked the array of responses he got from her -- Italian curses one day, begging and pleading the next. It was always nice to get a little variety. 

He casually traced a line down her throat with his knife. She mewled.

Abaddon examined her nails, not sparing the European serial killer a glance. “And I heard that you’re working with that overrated salesman.”

“Oh, hardly,” he chuckled. “I’m allowing him to maintain the illusion of power, but he’ll do whatever I ask.”

Abaddon faced him, raising a delicate eyebrow. “Are you so sure about that?”

“Someone had to turn Fergus MacLeod into Crowley the crossroads demon, didn’t they?” Alastair pinned the knife through Leonarda’s ear and left it there, ignoring her wails as he turned around. “And he is going to remain on the throne -- as long as he is useful to us.”

The second eyebrow joined the first as Abaddon regarded him scornfully. “Us?”

“You want the throne of hell and I want Dean Winchester,” Alastair stated simply. “It happens that our goals align and” he held up a finger as she opened her mouth to protest, “I can get you Cain.”

Abaddon’s mouth snapped shut, her eyes going wide before narrowing in calculation. “This had better not be another of your twisted games, Alastair.”

“I swear on Lucifer’s wretched heart,” Alastair said mockingly.

Abaddon snorted in amusement, resting a hand on her hip. “What did you have in mind?”

* * *

Their escape from the hospital was a blur of loud noise and painful movement. Sam thought he maybe blacked out a little somewhere along the way, but eventually he ended up settled in the Impala next to Dean with the angel (Estiel? Ezkriel? Something like that) in the back, feeling exhausted but at ease.

And really, really confused. 

Sam basically only knew what he could remember and piece together -- the Trials, the hospital, Dean pulling him back from the edge -- but he didn’t know where the angel came from or how Dean got his face smashed in or what happened to Crowley and on and on and on. The questions spinning around in his head were almost too much for his overburdened body, and he had to close his eyes and swallow back his nausea for the next ten miles. 

Apparently he’d fallen asleep somewhere along the way, because next thing Sam knew Dean was shaking him and asking him if he needed to take a leak. Sam shook his head no and watched as Dean dragged his own aching body from the car to the small rest stop they’d parked at.

With his brother no longer acting as a buffer, Sam was abruptly aware of the presence in the backseat. He cleared his throat a little, straightened with some effort. Opened his mouth to say something, ended up coughing instead.

“Are you all right, Sam?” The angel asked with a toneless sort of concern.

Clearing his throat again, Sam briefly met the angel’s eyes in the rearview mirror before flicking away. “Yeah, I’m fine,” he responded awkwardly. It was strange, trying to make conversation with this angel who he didn’t know but who had saved his life. Sam couldn’t even remember his name. 

Sam scratched the back of his head. “I know there’s nothing I can do to repay you, but thanks, for, you know, saving me back there.”

“Of course,” the angel replied emphatically. “No payment is necessary. There are still those of us in heaven who believe in our original mission.”

Which sounded great, but very… rehearsed.

The air felt thin in the Impala all of a sudden, and Sam levered the door open. “I think I’m gonna take a leak, after all,” he mumbled as he made his second escape of the day.

There were a few picnic tables scattered around the rest stop, and Sam found himself sinking down on a bench not even halfway to the building. It was also in clear view of the car, which meant the angel could see him and his excuse for leaving was completely invalidated, but Sam didn’t care. 

It was barely thirty seconds later that Dean walked stiffly out of the rest stop, munching on a snickers bar in one hand while holding a strawberry poptart -- Sam’s favorite flavor, not his -- in the other. Then he locked eyes with Sam, and his careful walk became a fast limp as he made his way over to the picnic table. 

“Need a hand?” Dean asked worriedly, watching Sam like he was afraid he’d fall back into a coma at any second. Which, considering the things had been going recently, Sam couldn’t blame him for.

Sam shook his head, found himself weirdly unable to meet Dean’s too-earnest eyes. “Nah. Just needed some fresh air.” 

Dean huffed a laugh, stepping up onto the bench and turning to sit on the table next to Sam. He held out the poptart for Sam to take. “Yeah, Zeke’s a bit of a stiff, but you get used to him.”

 _Zeke?_ Sam wondered bewilderedly, staring at the poptart like Dean had just handed him a cassette tape and expected him to eat it. “How’d you two meet, anyway?”

Dean looked away with an uncharacteristic bashfulness. “I, uh, prayed.”

Sam’s eyes widened. “You -- Dean, you could’ve given every angel listening our location!” Dean winced a little, and Sam barely kept his jaw from dropping as realization swept over him. Then he found himself letting out a small laugh, saying, “So that’s what happened to your face.” 

“I was a little desperate, Sam,” Dean said defensively.

Sam swallowed at his brother’s tone, tried hard to imagine what the last 24-hours had been like for him. Couldn’t. “I know, man. I’m sorry.”

“Wasn’t your fault,” Dean said tiredly, but it wasn’t the type of tiredness that came from a few hours of hospital watch duty and a solid beating. No, Sam had a suspicion it had a lot more to do with running himself into the ground looking after Sam those last few months, dealing with every non-Trial-related problem Sam had been too weak to handle. Sam looked away, feeling small and selfish. _You did the Trials for Dean, huh? Yeah, nice going._

“But Sam,” Dean said, voice desperate, and Sam forced himself to look at him. “Back there, with Death. I just… I need to know you aren’t --” He closed his eyes, took a deep breath. “I need you to want to live for you, Sammy.”

Sam stared at the coarse wood of the bench he was gripping, splinters digging their way into his palms, tears blurring his vision. He didn’t want to lie, he was so incredibly _done_ with lying. But, he thought as he sat next to his brother at this broken-down picnic table in the middle of nowhere, maybe he didn’t have to. 

So Sam met his brother’s eyes and said, “I do, Dean. I swear I do.”

And he thought those were words he could come to believe. 

* * *

Dean filled Sam in on the rest in the car -- Cas becoming human, angels wanting revenge for their fall, and, oh yeah, Crowley tied up in the trunk. Evidently it was a lot to process, because Sam was out for the rest of the trip.

Dean was just about ready to pass out himself, and it was a long drive back to the bunker, but more than anything he just wanted to be _home_. So he gritted his teeth through the aches and pains, occasionally eyeing Ezekiel in the rearview mirror, neither of them saying a word. 

Some part of him wondered why Ezekiel didn’t just go off to do his own thing, but maybe he didn’t have anywhere else to go. Whatever the reason, Dean wasn’t protesting a little more angel juice on their team, especially with Cas powered down.

Several hours and four gas station cups of coffee later, the bunker came into view. When he finally put the Impala in park (outside, because Kevin had the place on total lockdown), Dean slumped in his seat for a moment, not sure he’d ever be able to move again. 

Apparently Sam had syphoned off all his energy, because he came awake with a refreshed yawn, still looking drained but leagues better than he had waking up in the hospital. Normally Dean might’ve shot him a petty glare for this unfair ratio of exhaustedness, but he was just too relieved to be seeing Sam looking completely un-corpselike. 

“We there?” Sam asked blearily, shifting in his seat.

“Yup,” Dean said, patting him on the shoulder lightly. “Let’s go.” 

Ezekiel trailed behind them as they walked towards the front entrance, still not saying a word. Probably feeling pretty damn uncertain about this whole situation, Dean realized. He paused before the door, turned to face the angel.

“Look, I don’t know you all that well, but Cas says you’re good and you helped us out, so I got no problem if you stay with us. Hell, we could use the man -- angel -- power. But if you gotta fly off, do your own thing, that’s cool too, man. No worries.”

Ezekiel regarded him for a moment, then the door, looking conflicted. He finally ventured, “I think… I think I’d like to stay here. For now. I will provide what assistance I can.”

Dean nodded. That was that, then. 

A few torturously squeaky hinges later they were inside, and a crossbow bolt thudded into the railing directly in front of Dean. 

Okay, next two things on the to-do list: bust out the WD-40, and teach Kevin how to aim. Preferably away from him. 

Kevin peeked out from his makeshift barricade of books and tables, looking disheveled and a little unhinged. Would need a bit more than WD-40, that was for sure. “Dean? You’re alive!”

“Yeah, ‘cause you’re a crappy shot,” Dean snorted, descending into the war room followed by his mismatched entourage (yeah, they’d LOVE being called that). Kevin’s already-buggy eyes widened at the sight of Ezekiel, and he started to raise the crossbow again.

“Whoa, there.” Dean swooped in to grab the crossbow from Kevin. “Stand down, Katniss, he’s a friendly.” He curled his lip at the crossbow. “And maybe go for a gun next time, huh?”

Sam stepped forward, grabbing Kevin by the shoulders and shaking him a little. “Hey, what happened here?”

Kevin’s squirrely gaze focused on Sam for a moment before flicking away to dart around the room. “Th-the place went nuts! There was an alarm, and the whole bunker shut down, and I couldn’t open my door and my phone wasn’t working and I thought the world was ending!”

Sam winced a little, trading glances with Dean. The kid needed a serious break, stat.

“You’re not too far off,” Dean winced, unconsciously holding his arm to his ribs. Damn, that angel had been a bitch. He hoped she was miserable, wherever she was. “The angels fell.”

He pulled out his phone, ignoring Kevin’s stunned and weirdly constipated look at the revelation. “I’ve got all three bars,” he noticed, brow raised. 

Kevin ran over and pulled a lever on the wall, stumbling back when the power thrummed back to life with a mildly concerning, mechanical clanking noise.

“Power’s back on,” Kevin remarked stupidly. 

“Sure is,” Dean muttered. Time to deal with problem _numero uno_. Their makeshift prophet was on the verge of a full-on mental break down, and as used as Dean was to the experience, he really did NOT have the energy to go there right then. “Listen, Kev, why don’t you go grab some sleep, okay? We’ll talk about this more tomorrow.”

Kevin looked hesitant, but he had at least enough sense left to know he was barely on his feet. He nodded, rubbing his eyes blearily as he turned to walk to his room.

Once he was out of earshot, Sam silently began to make his way back towards the car. Dean started to follow, but Sam held out his hand.

“What?” Dean asked incredulously.

Sam shook his head. “I’m just gonna move the Impala to the garage and grab Crowley. Just… sit down for a second, okay? You look like shit.”

Dean may or may not have pouted, but he carefully lifted himself to sit on a nearby table anyway. _Damn_ he hurt. 

* * *

Getting Crowley secured in the dungeon was a surprisingly easy task. Dean had met Sam there, and with Ezekiel off “inspecting the warding,” it was just two Winchesters and the King of Hell.

Not an uncommon trio, actually. Huh.

Sam ripped the hood off the demon’s head and the duct tape from his mouth, and Crowley smirked at them from beneath his mussed up hair. “Hello, bo --”

Dean promptly socked him in the mouth.

“Gahh!” Crowley spat out a glob of blood. Dean smiled gleefully, the expression settling a little too easily onto his brother’s pale face.

“Never get tired of doin’ that,” Dean crowed. 

“Here’s how this is gonna go,” Sam started, cutting right to the chase. “You’re gonna tell us the names of every demon on Earth and who they’re possessing.”

Crowley worked his jaw, a baleful glare turning quickly back into a self-satisfied grin. “Really? That doesn’t sound like me.”

Sam grinned right back, remembering this very same demon trussed up in a church only hours before, begging to be loved. Crowley hadn’t been sounding much like himself recently, anyway.

Crowley must have read Sam’s expression, because his eyes narrowed and he shifted to sit up straighter in his seat. “You’ve got no leverage, boys. What are you gonna do to me that I don’t do to myself, every Friday night, just for fun?”

Sam and Dean exchanged loaded looks. Then they turned around and walked out of the dungeon, closing and locking the heavy doors behind them. They’d come back in a few days, see if he was feeling more talkative then. If anything was reliable about Crowley, it was that he loved the sound of his own voice.

“We’re gonna have to tell Kevin,” Dean said once they were out in the hallway. He dragged a hand wearily down his face, looking about as shitty as Sam felt. 

Sam nodded reluctantly. “Yeah, he deserves to know. We’ll tell him tomorrow. Maybe he won’t freak out once he’s had some shut eye.”

“That bastard took his mom, Sam. He’s gonna freak out no matter what.”

“Yeah, I know,” Sam conceded. And he did. Kevin had lost a lot in the last few years, but his mom had been the last straw. Sam knew what it was like to lose the only family you had left.

So did Dean, though, and that recent strain was showing on his bruised and beaten face. Sam inclined his head down the hall, towards the infirmary. “Come on, man, let me check you out -- you could have a concussion or something.”

“I know what a concussion feels like, Sam,” Dean huffed. He shook his head. “Nah, I’m all right. Just need a little shut-eye.”

Sam swallowed down his protests, because Dean wasn’t a complete moron -- if there was something seriously wrong, he was ninety percent certain Dean would tell him. Besides, he wouldn’t have been able to hide it for this long, anyway. Sleep was probably just what the doctor ordered -- for both of them, Sam thought with a yawn. 

Dean clapped a firm yet gentle hand on his shoulder. “Let’s call it a night, yeah?”

Sam found his agreement interrupted by another yawn, and he scrubbed at his eyes as he was steered towards his bedroom. All the exhaustion of the Trials and everything that came with them seemed to be hitting him at once, and he was practically unconscious before he hit the pillow.

As Sam drifted to sleep that night, he caught himself thinking that all things considered, things could have turned out a lot worse. 

* * *

Dean couldn’t sleep. Which was a bitch, because he really _wanted_ to -- his body was practically screaming for it. 

But now that the adrenaline had died down, it was like every bad part of this nightmarish year had decided to collaborate on a fucking collage that he saw every time he closed his eyes. 

Purgatory, Sam, the Trials, fucking _Death_ \-- each and every one of them floated before his vision like some sort of fucked-up LSD overdose. All of it punctuated by that one horrible week in Carencro, Louisiana.

_Don’t go there, Winchester._

So, inevitably, Dean gave up on sleep and ended up surfing the web for news about angels or demons or whatever-the-fuck-else decided to crash and burn topside. So much for closing up heaven and hell -- now they had more problems coming in from both directions than they ever had before the Trials. Damn, it was gonna be a busy year.

It didn’t take long before he stumbled across a news article about a bus where three marines, fresh off duty, had gone missing, and three civilian corpses had been found. A bit sloppy, even for demons, but who knew what they did when Crowley wasn’t around.

And as malicious and conniving as the current King of Hell was, Dean almost wondered if taking away the demons’ leader was actually in their own best interest.

He pushed those thoughts away and checked the time: three forty-three AM. Sam and Kevin were still out cold, and Ezekiel was who knows where, but Dean definitely couldn’t go check this out himself.

Could he?

Even Dean could admit to himself that he wasn’t in the best physical shape to be hunting, and he had just gotten Sam back. They were supposed to be a team, take on all this shit together.

But he couldn’t very well sit on his thumbs, either. The angels wouldn’t stop for anything, and the demons sure as hell wouldn’t either. Besides, Dean couldn’t keep that image of Sam, laying pale and nearly dead in the hospital, out of his head. If he could keep his brother safe for just a little while longer while he recovered, wouldn’t it be worth it?

There was only one way to find out.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I'm sorry for the long wait -- I know I said it'd only be a couple weeks, but things got a little hectic on my end. I'm hoping my free time will open up a bit more soon and I'll be able to crank these out faster.
> 
> Aside from that, I wasn't completely sure where I was going with this chapter, but now I have a few new ideas... guess you'll have to wait and see how those play out ;) Thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Long time, no see! Here's the chapter you've all been waiting (very patiently) for -- so enjoy!

Turned out, Dean didn’t need to leave the bunker to find out what was going on.

He was throwing a few final items in his duffel, trying to figure out which tie would make him look the most _federal_ , when one of his burner phones started ringing. He had to dig through the pile of cheap hardware before finally locating the culprit, and when he flipped open the screen, there was no caller ID.

Which wasn’t unusual. Could be any hunter, really.

It wasn’t.

 _“Hello Dean,”_ Abaddon purred.

“What do you want,” Dean grit out. Typical. Fucking typical. He couldn’t get his brother back without raising the hell bitch from the dead, like some sort of twisted two-for-one special at Walmart. _Save one guy and get an evil skank free!_

_“Oh, that’s some attitude you’re sporting Dean. Have you missed me?”_

Dean smiled bitterly, straining to keep from raising his voice. He could NOT have Sam walk in on this right then. “Sure have, sweetheart. Almost as much as I miss those migraines I used to get as a kid.”

_“Aww, you don’t really mean that.”_

“Alright, cut the cute talk. What do you want?” Dean growled, feeling his hands flex into fists.

 _“Fine,”_ she sighed lengthily. _“I have some friends of yours -- one Irv Franklin and one Tracy Bell. 44.053051 by -123.127860. I’d get here quick if I were you.”_

Dean opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off before he could get a word in edgwise. _“Oh, and Dean? Make sure to bring Crowley along for the ride. Otherwise you might get your hunter buddies back in pieces.”_

Dean blinked down at his phone as the line went dead. A hostage exchange. Sounded simple enough, but he couldn’t go in assuming it was anything other than a trap.

He pocketed his phone, surveying the contents of his duffel. An angel blade, holy water, salt, spray paint: everything he needed to hunt a batch of good-’ole regular demons. None of which he was sure would work on Abaddon and whatever crew she had with her. 

Adding his glock to the pile, Dean glanced at the doorway. Going after Abaddon alone would be _beyond_ stupid, he knew that. The odds weren’t good, and he had solid backup just down the hall. Besides, Crowley was a valuable resource, one that they needed to try to fix this mess. This was too big of a decision to make by himself, and he knew it. 

But Dean was feeling a little stupid, and more than a little reckless. The last year… everything had been spinning out of his control, and was it so wrong to want to regain a little of that? 

He’d lost Benny, almost lost Sam -- hell, he’d almost lost _himself_ . Sam was finally safe, would finally be _okay,_ and Dean if just wanted to hold onto that for a little bit longer, so sue him. But he was also angry, dangerously angry, he knew -- at the angels, the demons, the damn Trials, even Abaddon’s fucking attitude was pissing him off -- and he knew if he didn’t burn some of that off, the delicate balance they’d attained in the Bunker would blow apart. 

Dean zipped up his duffel and fisted the keys. He needed a win, and there were lives in the balance, but Sam’s couldn’t be one of those lives this time. _Sorry Sammy,_ he thought ruefully. 

Now all he needed was the King of Hell.

///

One would think herding a portly British demon into the trunk of a car would be a loud and messy ordeal, and they would be absolutely right.

“Come _on,_ we just got here! You don’t have the decency to leave a man in peace for two minutes?”

Dean shoved Crowley a little harder down the hall, just enough that he stumbled. “First of all, you’re a demon. I don’t give a damn about acting _decent_ towards you. Second of all, shut up.”

They finally rounded the corner into the garage -- and ran right into Ezekiel.

“I heard a commotion,” the angel stated, cocking his head. He eyed Crowley curiously. “Is everything all right?”

Dean internally groaned, but pasted on his most convincing smile. “Just out for a beer. Gotta burn off some steam.”

There was a short moment in which everyone in the room silently acknowledged the blatant stupidity of that lie.

Ezekiel flicked his eyes down to Dean’s duffel and over to Crowley again, saying nothing.

Dean sighed. In all honesty, he’d forgotten the angel was in the Bunker, but he could use the backup. He didn’t want Sam with him, but he didn’t have a deathwish. “C’mon. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

///

“And you’re sure this is the only way?” Ezekiel asked again. Dean had filled him in on his theory that Abaddon’s minions had possessed the missing marines from the news article and the details of the phone call, but even he could admit to himself that there were some holes in his plan.

“What other choice do we have?” Dean fired back, wrapping his hands tightly around the steering wheel. “If we don’t bring Crowley, she’s going to kill these hunters, and I can’t let that happen.”

“And how can you even be sure that she does have them? That she isn’t lying?” the angel pressed.

Dean pursed his lips, glancing in the rearview mirror for the fourth time that minute, and again seeing nothing but darkness. Damn, he was getting to be one of those old paranoid bastards, wasn’t he? “Demons don’t lie when the truth is more useful. Besides, we can’t take that chance.”

Apparently this answer was insufficient for Zeke, because he let out a little huff of air, which was by far the most expression Dean had ever seen him show. “Do you at least have a backup plan? Surely you don’t expect Abaddon to honor the rules of a typical hostage exchange.”

Dean was quiet for a moment. “She wanted me to come alone, but she’s probably expecting me to bring Sam, not you. You think you have some smiting juice left?”

Ezekiel nodded. “I’m not quite at full strength, but I’ve had sufficient time to recover since healing Samuel. I should be able to mask my form from the demons as well, for a time.” He paused. “Why are you not bringing your brother? Could he not be of assistence?” 

“No, he could, it’s just…” Dean shook his head. “He just got pulled out of a coma, and I don’t want him in the field yet.” He cleared his throat. “Anyway, that’s good. If she doesn’t hand over Tracy and Irv straight away, you need to find them, get them out of there. Take out any demons you can along the way. Maybe we won’t have to give up Crowley after all.”

“And what about Abaddon? You expect to take her on all by yourself?” Ezekiel asked incredulously.

Dean smirked. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll keep her talking. I still got some of those devil’s trap bullets too, if things go south.”

The angel didn’t respond, and Dean couldn’t quite convince himself that was because of the flawlessness of his plan. 

///

Sam blinked his eyes groggily up at the ceiling, too comfortable to consider getting up. He rolled over instead, yawning in that satisfying way that only came after a good night’s sleep.

He was still a little achy -- a remnant of the Trials -- but overall he felt better than he had in months. A brief glance at his watch confirmed that he’d slept a little over seven hours; it was about six AM. Wasn’t the longest he’d ever slept in, but he figured his four-hour nap in the car the day before could have something to do with that.

Sam pushed himself up, the need for coffee (and maybe a quick run) urging him to his feet. He’d been thrown off his regular routine thanks to the Trials, and something about the normalcy of everyday activities was acutely appealing right then.

He wandered past Kevin’s room on the way to the kitchen, smiling softly at the loud snores emanating from behind the door. Thank god the kid was finally getting some rest. He was going to run himself into the ground sooner or later if they didn’t keep an eye on him.

Sam rubbed his eyes blearly, stepped into the kitchen, and immediately knew something was wrong.

The smell of coffee was laced through the air, and the coffee pot still had almost a cup’s worth left in it, but when Sam brushed his hand against the side of it, it was cool. Which was strange, because Kevin was fast asleep, and he sure didn’t remember making coffee when they’d gotten back the night before. 

“Dean?” he called, making his way over the library. Sam half expected to find his brother passed out next to a bottle of booze, and was a little disturbed to only find an empty coffee mug sitting next to Dean’s open laptop. No Dean.

Sam pulled back the chair in front of the computer to sit down, and were those fed clothes crumpled up into a ball on the seat of the chair?

 _We’re really gonna have to iron these AGAIN,_ was his first reaction. His second was more comparable to panic.

He tapped the mouse pad a couple times to turn the screen on, which revealed what he’d pretty much suspected at this point -- Dean was on a case. Demons, it looked like.

Demons that Dean went after _alone._

Only, if Dean really was going to go investigate the potentially-possessed marines, he would’ve taken his suit with him, and he probably wouldn’t have left a mess behind either. Dean was practically anal about the cleanliness of their newfound home, which meant that he’d probably been interrupted.

Sam foraged around the table looking for clues -- reflecting that he and Dean probably could have made pretty decent private investigators in another life -- and came up with a notepad.

Taking a wild guess, Sam grabbed a nearby piece of scrap paper (which might’ve actually been a coupon that Dean would be pissed about missing, but fuck him) and pressed it over the notepad before shading it lightly, then brought it up to the light to read.

Coordinates.

Okay, so maybe Dean had gotten a call or something, that wasn’t unheard of. But why the hell hadn’t he gotten Sam?

Sam closed his eyes, barely controlling himself from crushing the etching in his fist. Dean, trying to protect him again, not trusting him to watch his own back. _God,_ he thought they were past all this!

And come to think of it, Sam hadn’t seen the angel yet either. Dean probably dragged him along for the ride instead.

For some reason, that thought made Sam even angrier.

He shook his head and went to grab his duffle bag. There was no _way_ he was letting Dean leave him out of whatever stupid plan he had now.

///

The coordinates dumped them smack-dab in the middle of Oregon -- some ghost town that looked like it had been rotting since the 90’s. Dust covered everything in a fine layer, and the buildings cracked and sagged under the sinking sun’s oppressive heat. Dean parked behind an old diner, taking the key out of the ignition.

Dean squinted in the mid-evening light as he surveyed their surroundings from the car. “Wonder what happened here.”

“I’m not entirely sure, but this entire town breathes contamination,” Ezekiel responded solemnly. He closed his eyes. “I sense two humans nearby. They must be the hunters.”

“Okay, here’s the deal. You go help Irv and Tracy, get them out of here. Try to stay hidden -- I’ll draw out Abaddon and her crew,” Dean said as he reached for the door handle.

“Dean,” Ezekiel stopped him. “Be careful. I do not think your brother would react well to losing you.”

Dean watched him for a second, then nodded before grabbing his duffel from the backseat and opening the door.

He waited for Ezekiel to slip away into the shadows before making his way into the center of town. 

///

Sam figured, with the amount of speed limits he was breaking, he was maybe thirty minutes out from his destination -- which was looking to be pretty much in the middle of nowhere. 

He’d only stopped twice, once to grab some food and coffee and another time to take a leak, but it was still more than a sixteen hour trip. Fatigue from the Trials was hanging over his head like a dark cloud, having returned with a vengeance sometime during the long trip, but he pushed it aside. The only thing that mattered was getting to Dean.

Sam shouldn’t have been panicking so much; his brother was a good hunter and he did, after all, have a fucking _angel_ watching his back. But the fact of the matter was, Sam had no idea what he was walking into, and that meant Dean probably didn’t, either. Something must have made Dean desperate for him to drop everything and come out here the way he did, and that only made the knot of anxiety twist a little tighter in Sam’s stomach.

He pushed down on the gas a little harder, and prayed he wouldn’t be too late.

///

Dean was barely five steps into the center square when a line of bullets tore up the ground in front of him.

He dropped instinctively into a crouch, covering his head and squinting through the dust to see where the shots had come from. He tried to inconspicuously reach into his duffel for his angel blade, but froze when a voice rang out through the air.

“I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

Dean craned his head up to see Abaddon stalking towards him, and, surprise! Two black eyed marines were flanking her, both carrying heavy firearms. But three had gone missing from the bus earlier, which meant that the last… was probably guarding the hunters. _Shit._ Hopefully Zeke knew how to smite quietly.

Dean put his hands slowly in the air as the demons trained their weapons on him, and made sure to keep his expression flat when Abaddon kicked his bag away. He still had the demon knife strapped to his boot, but _damn._

Abaddon reached down and grabbed a handful of Dean’s shirt, pulling him to his feet (in a way he was _totally not comfortable with,_ by the way). “Where’s Crowley?” she demanded.

Dean grinned up at her. “You show me your cards, I’ll show you mine?” 

Abaddon laughed. “Oh, please.” She flapped her hand at minions one and two, which was apparently some sort of signal, because they turned and began making their way deeper into the town. “I know Sam’s here trying to free your little friends, but he can’t take three demons all by himself. So either you get me Crowley, or everyone dies.”

Dean’s smile sharpened, and he turned back towards the Impala. “Thought you’d never ask.”

His mind raced as they approached the car, sifting through various options. Abaddon didn’t know that he had an angel in his corner, and he was pretty confident Ezekiel could take on a few punk-ass demons, but Dean needed to buy him some time. 

He could do that.

They finally stopped next to the Impala. Abaddon’s eyes flicked between Dean and the trunk, before she let out a harsh laugh. “You’re kidding me!”

“No ma’am,” Dean said, right as he tossed the keys aside and reached down to pull the demon knife from his boot. 

Abaddon was on him before he’d even straightened completely, kicked his leg out from under him and forcing him down on one knee as she wrenched the knife out of his hand. Dean cried out in pain -- he’d forgotten how fucking _strong_ she was -- and could do nothing but grimace as she pressed him back against the bumper of the Impala. _Sorry, Baby._

“I so appreciate you boys coming when I call,” the demon purred. “I think that’s what I like most about you Winchesters.” She reached up and grabbed a fistfull of his short hair, yanking his head back and dragging her eyes up and down his exposed throat. “You’re so obediant.” She smiled slowly. “And suicidally stupid. I like that too.”

Dean swallowed down what was probably vomit and twitched the corners of his lips up into what he hoped was more of a smile than a demented sneer. “Are we gonna fight or make out? ‘Cause I’m getting some real mixed signals here.”

Her smile hardened a little. “You didn’t honor our deal, but I know where Crowley is now, so I guess I don’t need you anymore.”

Dean dug his fingers into her arm, staring straight into her eyes. If she was gonna kill him, she wasn’t gonna get the satisfaction of -- 

“Except, I’m really not supposed to kill you… and I have a much better idea anyway.” Abaddon trailed her hand down from the back of his head to his chest, and he tensed as she started pulling layers aside. He tried to grab her wrist, but she kept going as if it were nothing. “You know, I’ve loved this body since the moment I first saw it. You’re the perfect vessel, Dean. You give a girl all sorts of nasty ideas.”

She finally yanked his shirt down to reveal his anti-possession tattoo, and then suddenly she had the demon knife gripped in her hand. _No, no, no._

Dean didn’t avert his gaze, staring Abaddon down even as she poised the knife. “Are you sure you wanna do this? I mean, between you and me, it’s a horror show up there.”

The bitch was full-on grinning now. “Oh, trust me. It can get worse.” 

The knife bit into his flesh. Dean jerked and tried to push her off of him again, but she was too strong. He closed his eyes.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go.

Abaddon made, from what he could tell, two long cuts crossing his tattoo. Not that it mattered. One would’ve been enough.

It must have been his imagination, but he thought he heard Sam calling his name. Dean opened his eyes to look for him, but all he saw was black smoke.

For a fleeting moment, Dean felt as though his very soul were being smothered in darkness, before a deep, permeating cold spread throughout his entire body.

Then, finally, silence.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For any of you fearing the worst, I haven't given up on this story, and I don't plan to! Things have been pretty crazy everywhere lately, but trust me when I say I am very invested in finishing this series.
> 
> What a cliffhanger! I've always wondered what might've happened if Dean was possessed by Abaddon in early season 9 instead of the whole Gadreel storyline... now I guess we get to find out!
> 
> Until next time!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! Sorry for the long wait -- things have been a bit hectic recently, but here's my humble peace offering.

Sam was a scant ten minutes away from where the coordinates had directed him and was considering taking a shortcut through a nearby corn field, Dean’s new paint job on the recently-restored 1951 Muntz be damned, when his phone started vibrating violently in the passenger seat.

Sam’s eyes flicked between the road and the phone, thought about ignoring it -- he was _so close_ to reaching Dean and pulling him out of whatever bullshit he’d gotten himself into. But, on the other hand, this could very well be Dean. Or Cas. Or Kevin. Not many other people had that number, and none of them would call unless it was an emergency. 

Sam picked up the phone.

“--is missing, and I tried calling Dean but he won’t pick up and--” Kevin fired off before Sam had even had a chance to open his mouth.

“Whoa, whoa, hold on for a sec. What’s going on?” Sam asked worriedly.

Kevin took a deep breath. “Crowley’s missing.”

“What?!” Sam almost swerved into an oncoming pickup truck, but was able to correct his path just in time. He adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, willing himself to calm down. “What do you mean, Crowley’s missing?”

“I woke up and you guys and that weird angel were gone, and then I checked the dungeon and Crowley’s not there!”

“You checked the--” Sam shook his head. They’d have to have a conversation about that later. “Okay, just, hold on. I’ll get back to you.”

“Hey, is Dean with you? Because--” 

Sam hung up before Kevin could finish his sentence, pursing his lips worriedly. The demons, the coordinates, Crowley missing… the math wasn’t adding up well.

As the town neared on the horizon, he could only hope that Dean hadn’t finally gotten himself into a mess that he couldn’t get out of.

///

Sam ended up parking just outside of town, wanting to maintain some semblance of stealth. The Muntz grumbled loudly as he pulled the key out from the ignition and Sam winced, hoping he hadn’t just lost the element of surprise.

Sam was more careful with the creaking doors as he exited the car -- it was like Dean had some sort of aversion to oiling car door hinges. Armed with an angel blade and holy water, he carefully rounded the corner of the building he’d parked behind, making sure to keep his (admittedly rather hard to hide) frame in the shadows. 

He spotted the Impala almost immediately. It wasn’t very discreetly hidden, which said something about Dean’s intentions there. More concerning, however, was a familiar red-haired figure poised with a knife over a slumped and bloodied man who happened to look a lot like Dean.

The next few seconds seemed to go by in slow motion. Sam distantly heard himself call Dean’s name as he sprinted towards him, raising his angel blade and wishing it were a shotgun. Dean’s eyes seemed to search for his, but Abaddon had her hand around his throat and black smoke was filling the air between them and Sam was _still too far away --_

Josie Sand’s body slumped to the ground, animation leaving the corpse as quickly as it had come. Sam’s gaze shifted slowly, painfully, to Dean. 

Dean rose smoothly to his feet, too smoothly for someone who’d just been lying slumped and bleeding on the ground. His shirt beneath his flannel was torn, blood seeping out from two deep cuts crossing his anti-possession tattoo, and Sam swallowed before searching Dean’s eyes. They were charcoal black.

Despair hit Sam in a wave, plunging deep into his very bones. This couldn’t -- _shouldn’t_ \-- be happening. _Damn_ Dean and his stupid, self-sacrificing, overprotective tendencies. If Sam had been here, if Dean had trusted him, if he’d been strong enough after the trials, if, if, _if--_

“Oh, hey, Sammy,” the demon said, baring Dean’s teeth in a caricature of a smile. Sam shuddered, feeling nauseous. “Didn’t see you there. Hey, you don’t mind me borrowing your brother for a bit, do you? He’s just _such_ a sweet ride.”

Sam narrowed his eyes, feeling some of the helplessness drain away in leiu of rage. He lifted his angel blade again. “You get the hell out of him.”

Abaddon laughed, twisting Dean’s deep voice into a cackle that just sounded _wrong._ “Now that just sounds dirty!”

Clenching his teeth, Sam mentally prepared the exorcism he’d memorized -- even knowing full well it wouldn’t work on her -- but suddenly found himself flying through the air. He hit the ground hard, blade jolting from his grip. He scrambled to his feet in time to see Dean -- _no, not Dean, Abaddon_ \-- reaching for the trunk of the impala. Where, if he knew his brother, Crowley was being kept.

“Wait!” he yelled, but it was too late. Dean’s hand came down on the trunk lid and immediately began sizzling and burning, right before his body was thrown backwards. 

Abaddon hit the ground with a curse, followed quickly by another rather disconcerting laugh. “Clever boys! You warded your little car, did you?” Before Sam could think to respond, she was up with the demon blade in her hand. “I’ll tell you what. You open that trunk for me, and I won’t kill him.” And then she lifted the knife to her -- Dean’s -- throat.

Sam swallowed, suddenly remembering his encounter with Death not too long ago. He’d been so ready to let go, so confused at Dean’s insistence that he return to the land of the living. God, how could he have been so willing to just let his brother go? How could he have been so _stupid?_

“Well?” Abaddon challenged. “I don’t really need him alive, you know. It’s just more fun that way. So if you ever want a chance at getting your brother back, you’ll open that trunk. _Now.”_

Sam closed his eyes briefly, allowing himself to feel the weight of all the lives that would be lost as a result of Crowley’s release. Then he turned, and opened the trunk. 

/// 

It was dark, at first. 

But dark wasn’t the right word, didn’t quite do it justice. This was a kind of pitch black that didn’t, couldn’t exist in the natural world. It reminded him a little of Purgatory, reminded him a lot of Hell.

And who was he again?

He shook his head, only he didn’t because he couldn’t.

_What?_

He was trapped, pinned down, unable to move his own body, and yet here he was, suspended in this big, empty, _dark_ space.

Dark like demon smoke.

In that instant, everything came rushing back, would’ve knocked the breath out of him if he were controlling that sort of thing. Dean. His name was Dean Winchester, his brother’s name was Sam, the angels had fallen, and he was possessed by a Knight of Hell.

Just fucking _great._

“Let me out, you bitch!” he yelled. Or, tried to, at least, but his voice rebounded in a distorted sort of echo. Hearing it a second time, he wondered if he should be asking to be let out, or asking her to get out. He decided the second sounded decidedly kinkier than the first.

 _“See? I told Sam the same thing!”_ A disembodied yet obviously female voice responded. _“Sounds dirty, doesn’t it? Not that I mind.”_

“Abaddon,” Dean growled. “Why are you doing this?”

 _“I already told you!”_ She laughed. _“Who doesn’t want to take Michael’s precious little vessel for a joy ride? Besides, in all fairness, you did try to trick me and get away without making the exchange. This is just a little friendly pay back.”_

Dean struggled, trying to gain some sort of control, but the darkness was all-encompassing. He didn’t even know where to start, and he’d never felt so helpless.

 _“Aww, poor baby,”_ Abaddon mocked. _“Getting out won’t be quite so easy this time. But don’t worry, you and I will have lots of fun together, I promise. And in the meantime, there’s someone who’s been dying to meet you.”_

///

Sam was kneeling on the ground next to the Impala when Ezekiel returned. He hardly twitched when the angel and two hunters approached him, his hands in his lap, eyes fixed on a dark patch of dirt. No, not dark. Bloody. 

Ezekiel stopped, eyeing their surroundings warily. “Where is Dean?” 

Sam painstakingly got to his feet, turned to face them. “What happened? Why did he come out here?” he asked tonelessly, not bothering to acknowledge Ezekiel’s inquiry.

“Your brother received a call from Abaddon. She was holding these hunters hostage, and she wished to make an exchange,” Ezekiel explained.

Sam closed his eyes. “She wanted Crowley.”

“Yes.”

“Hey man, you alright?” Irv interrupted.

Sam gave him a weak smile. “Yeah. I’m glad you are, too.” He turned to the other hunter -- a young woman he didn’t recognize -- but the way she was eyeing him made him think she might not appreciate any sentiments he had to offer. He honestly didn’t have the energy, anyway. 

“You can thank your angel friend for that,” Irv chuckled. “He swooped in and took out three demons, just like that!” 

Sam nodded gratefully to Ezekiel, then turned back to the other hunter, fishing the keys to the Muntz he’d driven out of his pocket. “Look, why don’t you guys take my ride, get outta here.”

The girl grabbed the keys a little more fiercely than strictly necessary. “Gladly,” she snapped, then made her way over to the car.

“Whoa, hey,” Irv protested. “You guys just saved our lives. Tracy’s a bit of a handful, but we can help you with whatever it is you got goin’ on here.”

“We might just take you up on that sometime, Irv, but right now’s not a great time.”

Irv nodded uncertainly, then clapped Sam on the shoulder. “Okay, then. Gimme a call when you need me.”

Sam didn’t move until the Muntz was pulling away from the abandoned town.Then he whirled on Ezekiel, unable to stop the storm of emotions from breaching the surface, felt his voice strain when he said, “Abaddon has Dean.” 

“What?” Ezekiel responded, sounding so much like Cas in that moment that Sam had to do a double take.

Sam didn’t respond immediately, instead dragging his aching body to the front seat of the Impala. He took out his spare keys, clenching them tightly in his fist for a moment before lowering himself into the car. Ezekiel had followed his lead, was sitting next to him in the front, in _Dean’s_ seat. 

He took a deep breath. “She damaged his anti-possession tattoo. She,” Sam swallowed dryly, “took him, and she’s got Crowley. I don’t know what she would’ve done with me if she hadn’t sensed you smite those other demons.”

“So she just… left?” Ezekiel asked incredulously.

“Yeah,” Sam closed his eyes. “With Dean, the King of Hell, even took her old meatsuit for some reason. Could be a fucking momento, for all I know.”

Ezekiel was quiet for a moment. “We didn’t fail, Sam. Not completely. Your friends are safe.”

“With everything that’s going on?” Sam sighed. “Who knows how long that’ll last.” He put the car in reverse, turned away from the ghost town. It was time to head back to the Bunker. Then he had a Knight to catch.

///

The suffocating darkness remained for an indeterminate amount of time. Dean fought at first, but it was pointless, and exhausting, and he just didn’t have the energy. He resigned himself to wait for an opportunity to present itself, hoping that it would sooner rather than later.

Dean realized that he had no idea how long he’d been here, no idea what happened to Crowley. No idea what Abaddon had done to the hunters or Ezekiel. He wondered whether Sam had discovered what had happened to him, his mind flashing to the last thing he’d heard before going under -- Sam’s voice shouting his name. But that was impossible. Probably one of Abaddon’s tricks, or maybe he was just finally going crazy.

_“I’d go with that second option. Oh, you didn’t imagine Sam, but you’re definitely going crazy.”_

Dean froze -- or his thoughts did, at any rate. Somewhere in the back of his consciousness he could tell that his body was moving, but he couldn’t feel it in the slightest. Couldn’t tell what Abaddon was using it for.

And if Sam really _had_ been there... 

_“Don’t worry, he’s still alive. You didn’t rough him up too badly.”_

A memory played across his vision like a recording, as if he was looking through his own eyes from a distance. Dean watched as he casually flapped his hand at Sam, his _recovering brother_ who shouldn’t have been anywhere _near_ Abaddon, helpless as he went flying through the air to land on the ground with a _thud!_ Not even close to the worst Sam had gone through, but Dean cringed anyway. _Damn_ Abaddon.

_“Damning me to Hell? How ironic. But speaking of Hell, it’s time to meet that special someone.”_

And then he could see again.

The short memory-vision Abaddon had given him couldn’t begin to prepare him for his returning sight. Dean was so disoriented by the onslaught of colors and movement that he couldn’t make out his surroundings, and he tried to blink and clear his eyes. Except, oh yeah. Possessed here.

Before he could begin to untangle everything he was seeing, sound rushed in, like cobwebs were being swept away by a strong breeze. He hadn’t even realized how oppressive the silence had become until he could suddenly hear again, but it was almost too much. Taste, touch, and smell flooded back along with it, not as overwhelming, but enough to keep him off balance.

Mentally, anyway. He couldn’t even subconsciously move his own limbs, much to his chagrin. 

When the smell of rotten eggs and his grim surroundings finally clicked into place, Dean would’ve groaned if he could’ve.

They were in what looked to be Hell’s throne room -- probably Crowley’s version, anyway, based on the decoration. God, that guy was a pompous pain in the ass. He found himself walking through the room towards the empty throne, and he suddenly became aware of a sharp pain in his hand, like he’d burned it. It didn’t help that the very same hand was being used to drag the King of Hell by his lapels. 

Abaddon tossed Crowley unceremoniously into the chair, then cut his warded ropes with a wave of her hand. Crowley glared, but said nothing, which was weird in and of itself. 

Dean’s gaze then alighted on a slender brunette in a fitted black dress, staring passively out at him from next to the throne. He quickly forgot about Crowley as her image prodded at something in the back of his mind, a memory, telling him this girl was familiar.

Dean figured his long term practice of burying traumatic memories and his currently possession-fried brain cells were to blame for how long it took him to put a name to the face.

Lindsey. Or rather Bela, in Lindsey’s body. 

Before he could even begin to process this information, busy as he was fighting down images of Alastair and Purgatory and Hell, he felt his lips move, his breath and voice pushing out from his lungs into open air. Not being able to control his own breathing made the expansion of his lungs feel odd and unnatural, and he shuddered internally. God.

“Well, I got Crowley, as you can see. Though why you still allow him to masquerade as king is a mystery to me.” Dean heard himself say. Was that a hint of jealousy he detected in Abaddon’s -- his own voice? It definitely was. 

“Relax,” Bela responded, a mocking lilt to her tone. Abaddon bristled slightly. “This chair is nothing more than a useless symbol. So long as Crowley sits here, we won’t have to deal with any loyalists or insurrectors. Besides, the salesman here still has an addiction to feed, and he has a... relationship with the Winchesters. He is useful now, and when he ceases to be, your transition to the throne will be painless.”

Crowley shot Bela a baleful look. No one seemed to notice. 

“Who ever said I didn’t enjoy a little pain?” Abaddon shot back.

The corners of Bela’s lips pulled upwards. “Trust me, with what I have in store, there’ll be plenty of that to go around.” Her eyes raked up and down Dean’s figure. “Speaking of which, I didn’t expect you to bring him to me so soon. That wasn’t part of the plan.”

Dean raged internally. What in the everloving _fuck_ was going on? He was pretty sure Bela had saved his life a year ago, and now she was having him possessed? Plus, there was something... off, about her. He’d known Bela longer than he’d care to admit, if he counted all those years in the pit, and this whole ruling-class thing just wasn’t her shtick.

Abaddon glared at Bela. Dean could practically feel her already non-existent patience evaporating through his pores. “Look. You wanted Dean Winchester, and here he is. Enough with all your planning and schemes; I’ll kill Crowley, and we’ll both have what we want.”

Bela shook her head and tsked. “That’s where you’re wrong. Yes, I have Dean Winchester _here_ , but I don’t _have_ him, see?” 

Bela met Dean’s eyes, and in that moment Dean knew two things. First, the demon wasn’t looking at Abaddon; they were looking at _him._ And whoever was inside Lindsey’s body, it wasn’t Bela.

“You remember what that’s like, don’t you, Dean? To be owned?”

The words struck at something deep within Dean, something his mind recoiled sharply from.

_“You may have beat me, you son of a bitch, but you will never own me.”_

_And Alastair screamed as Dean’s angel blade pierced his heart._

No.

No, it couldn’t be. It couldn’t be him. Alastair was _dead._

But he’d thought Alastair was dead last time too, and look how well that had turned out.

Alastair refocused on Abaddon, his voice sounding distant and warbled in Dean’s ears. “If I just wanted a kidnapping I could do that myself. No, this is much better. Take him for a joyride, why don’t you?”

Dean felt like his whole life was falling apart before his very eyes. This was a goddamned nightmare. Some twisted, horror-filled nightmare where his body belonged to a Knight of Hell and Alastair just wouldn’t _fucking die._ Distantly, he felt his mouth twist into a scowl. 

“You don’t keep up your end of the bargain, and you’ll regret it, Alastair.”

“Then neither of us has anything to worry about.”

“So long as that remains the case,” Abaddon smiled. “I think I’ll have some fun.”

Even as Dean’s mind was muffled with shock, shrouded in darkness, he registered Alastair’s parting words, feeling panic well up within him at the realization of their meaning. 

But before he could react, he forgot why he had been alarmed in the first place.

///

“Oh, and Abaddon?”

The demon turned, annoyance quirking her brow. When she looked back at Alastair, his eyes were white once again.

“Make sure he doesn’t remember any of this.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So if it wasn't clear, when Abaddon "disappeared" she teleported away -- I'm not sure I remember seeing her do that on the show, but her wiki page says she can do it, so here we are. Also, Crowley's "addiction" was referencing his addiction to human blood after the Trials, which Alastair and Abaddon will exploit to keep him under control. 
> 
> Again, sorry about the wait everyone! I can't promise really regular updates, but I have been working on this and I won't abandon it! I really enjoy writing possessed!Dean, and even though I'm the one writing, I'm excited to see where this story will go. 
> 
> So horrible for Dean to finally have an inkling of Alastair's plot and then have it all ripped away... he has no idea what's in store for him >:) I hope you guys enjoyed!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I know it's been two months since my last update. I apologize profusely. You may locate my weak excuses at the end; until then, enjoy your peace offering.

The Bunker had never really felt like home. At least, not to Sam.

He knew his brother had settled in quickly -- it was only a few days of surprisingly thorough cleaning and furnishing before Dean was walking around like he owned the place. Which, Sam guessed, they did, although not very legally.

Sam was still warming up to it, gradually. It was functional, but home had always been an abstract concept to him. Never a building, always a person.

Dean. 

He wondered, dryly, if that made him homeless.

He dumped his duffel on his bed, and had to use every ounce of willpower to prevent himself from collapsing alongside it. He couldn’t afford a break. Not until the Dean was safe and the Bunker stopped feeling quite so large and empty, regardless of the two other occupants.

 _Speaking of which…_ Sam heaved a sigh. He really, _really_ had to talk to Kevin. 

Who, apparently, had added mind reading to his list of reputable prophet skills, and was standing in the doorway when Sam looked up.

Sam jumped a little, having to physically stop himself from reaching for his gun. 

Kevin looked slightly apologetic, but mostly frantic, even if some of the crazy had worn off thanks to some semi-decent sleep. “Sorry, I just -- could you please tell me what’s going on now?”

Sam sighed, running a hand down his face. “Yeah. C’mon, I gotta make some more coffee anyway.” 

He grabbed his laptop on the way to the kitchen and gave Kevin a run down, covering pretty much everything since the last Trial (everything important, anyway -- there was no way he was telling the kid about his little misadventure with Death). The story was painful, but Kevin was family, and he deserved to know the outcome of the Trials he had worked so hard to get them through. 

“So, just to recap,” Kevin said as they sat down while the coffee was brewing, “The angels fell, Cas is missing, Abaddon’s possessing Dean and now we don’t even have _Crowley?_ ” 

“Yeah, that’s pretty much the gist of it,” Sam confirmed tiredly.

Kevin looked down for a moment, no doubt frustrated at the loss of his only lead to his mother. But when he met Sam’s eyes again, they were determined. “So how are we gonna get Dean back?”

Sam felt once again awed by the grit of this kid, how he constantly pushed himself to the limit for them over and over again. And it occurred to him that maybe they were as much Kevin’s family as he was theirs.

He smiled thankfully at him, but the expression slipped off his face as he turned exhaustedly to his computer. “We gotta track Abaddon down, perform an exorcism. Sounds simple enough, but --”

“But Abaddon’s a Knight of Hell,” Kevin finished grimly. “What can I do?”

Sam let out a heavy gust of air, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “Hit the books, try to find a powerful enough exorcism or spell to get her out of Dean. I’ll start looking for signs of demonic activity, see what I come up with.”

Kevin opened his mouth as if he was going to say something else, glancing between Sam and what was likely to be the first of many cups of coffee that night, but apparently thought better of it. He nodded back at Sam before making his way into the library.

Sam stared at the screen uselessly for a moment, not even knowing where to start. Dean was possessed. _Possessed._ Sam had had enough limited experience with that to know that he needed to get Dean back as quickly as possible. He’d done his best to push down the memories of the things Meg and Lucifer had used him for, and he shuddered to think what that sort of experience would do to Dean, who already blamed himself for just about anything to ever go wrong. 

It had been, what, hardly a day since the last Trial? It was almost laughable how quickly things had gone wrong again. It felt like everytime Sam got his brother back, everytime their relationship seemed to be on the mend, something would happen, one of them would get dead or missing or messed up, and the cycle started all over again. Like God had some sort of personal vendetta against them.

Sam shook himself, refocusing on his laptop. Stewing on it wouldn’t help anybody, especially not Dean. And until Dean was back, Sam would do anything and everything in his power to save him.

///

Gadreel found cars rather irksome. 

They were loud, dangerous, and difficult to properly settle his vessel into. The last time he’d been on Earth, of course, there had been nothing of the sort. In fact, the world’s entire population had amounted to one man and one woman, secluded in the Garden.

If he had been human, he might have physically shaken such thoughts from his mind. That had been a long time ago, and although the world was a vastly different place, he could adjust. He had to. Besides, Gadreel could grudgingly admit that without his wings, cars were a far better alternative to walking, especially injured as he was.

His grace fluttered unsteadily under his skin, and Gadreel closed his eyes against the pain. His shattered wings had long since gone numb, and he mourned the implications.

He had been directed to some sort of archive room, near where they had earlier contained the demon Crowley. Sam Winchester had asked him to search for a means to track the Knight of Hell with, so that he might locate his brother. Instead, Gadreel found himself standing stock-still in the center of the room, contemplating his own actions over the last couple of earthly rotations. 

After his fall from the prison in Heaven, he’d been listless, without a cause. But when he’d heard Dean Winchester’s prayer, he had known it was his duty to help. After all, that’s what his kind was intended for: protecting and serving humanity.

Gadreel had failed once before. But maybe, by helping the Winchesters, he could redeem himself. 

But now… things had gotten complicated. His brethren were understandably confused, jamming what he’d heard the Winchesters refer to as “angel radio” with their chatter. But they no longer seemed as devoted to Heaven’s mission as they had thousands of years before. Instead, there was talk of acquiring vessels, hunting down an angel named Castiel, and worst of all, a war between angels.

There had to be some vital piece of information Gadreel was missing, something that would cause his brothers and sisters to act this way. But he couldn’t return to them, not yet. It was likely he would be killed on sight for his… history. No, he would allow his grace to heal, learn more about this new world, and perhaps regain some of his honor in assisting the Winchesters. 

He allowed his vessel to blink and take a shallow breath, resolving himself. Dean Winchester seemed to be a good man, and he was possessed by a demon. Demons were enemies of Heaven. He would help Sam Winchester save his brother and destroy the demon. From all viewpoints, it seemed the best course of action.

So why did wariness creep at the edges of his usually serene composure?

Pushing the useless emotions back (vessels could affect one quickly, he assured himself; the feelings likely were not his own), Gadreel allowed an ounce of grace to slip into his vision as he scanned the shelves of books and artifacts. There was much knowledge and power in the room, that much he could deduce. Although his injuries limited him, he was able to understand the basic components of every object, and he eventually discovered a few books he thought might be of interest to the younger Winchester. 

The angel left, closing the door to the room containing all his doubts firmly behind himself. 

///

The smell of coffee was the first thing Dean noticed when he began slipping through the cracks. Eventually, he made out some blurry details of the harshly-sunlit bus station he was evidently seated at, including but not limited to the boldly printed words of the newspaper he was holding: “GERMANY WINS FIFA WORLD CUP IN BRAZIL.” It took him a few tries before he realized that yes, he had read that correctly. He just had no idea what a Fifa was, and he hoped he never did. 

It came as a minor shock when his hand lifted his coffee to his lips without his say so, but as the taste of sweet caramel coated his tongue, everything came flooding back. Well, everything up until Abaddon had disappeared them and Crowley away from Sam -- he definitely felt like he was missing something after that. His memory was apparently shit these days. And seriously, a Starbucks drink? Dean was so killing this bitch.

 _“First of all, watch the language. Second, don’t pretend you don’t like caramel macchiatos. Everyone does,”_ Abaddon responded lazily.

Dean jolted a little at the sound of her voice, scrambling to organize his thoughts at the reminder that, oh yeah, she could _hear them._

Thankfully, the demon didn’t seem to be paying him any attention. A Greyhound had just pulled up to the curb in a cloud of exhaust that seemed to stick to the humid air like spray-on glue, and Dean’s weight shifted to his feet fast enough to give him a head rush. The mostly-empty caramel abomination was tossed carelessly at a nearby trash can, and bounced off the rim and onto the ground. Dean internally grit his teeth when Abaddon didn’t make a move to pick it up. He’d done a lot of shit in his life, but littering? That was a new low.

Dean found his eyes inexplicably drawn to his own reflection in the doors of the bus a split second before they opened, and had to do a double take. Same scruffy jawline and worn jeans (except maybe a little tighter -- what was THAT about?), but add a fresh pair of combat boots, a black leather jacket and some fucking _aviators,_ and viola, the new and improved Dean. Whether that was Dean Winchester or a James Dean reboot was yet to be determined. Jesus.

 _“C’mon, you know you’ve always wanted to look like a rockstar,”_ Abaddon commented smugly.

 _“Are you kidding? It’s like you tattooed ‘I’m trying to look like a badass’ across my forehead!”_ Dean fired back. He knew somewhere in the back of his head that he really shouldn’t be giving this bitch the satisfaction of a reaction, but come _on._ She really had to get over this hot-chick-in-leather fixation.

 _“So do you think I’m hot or do you think you’re a chick?”_ The bus rocked slightly as they boarded, and Dean chose not to dignify Abaddon’s amused inquiry with a response.

 _“What the fuck are we even doing here?”_ He snapped, despite not even really knowing where “here” was. It was a little too hot for leather, but this time of year that could be anywhere south of Nebraska. _“Shouldn’t you be killing Crowley or taking over Hell? ”_

Abaddon chuckled. _“Oh, sweetie. You really need to start taking a look at the big picture.”_

Slightly disturbed by the implications of that, Dean focused back into his surroundings. They had taken a seat closer to the front of the bus, but he could see in the rearview mirror that there were only eight people aboard total. A tired looking mom held the hand of a young girl a seat ahead of and across from them. The girl turned around and gave him a little wave, and Dean felt himself playfully returning it. Something he probably would’ve done normally, but now it just felt creepy. Especially because Abaddon hadn’t taken the stupid sunglasses off. Ugh.

A few seats behind him was a young woman in a business suit who checked her watch every few minutes, and a few seats behind that sat an elderly couple. On the other side of the bus, near the back, was a teenage girl wearing dark clothes and makeup, clutching her luggage to her chest and twirling her dyed hair nervously. And then, of course, there was the bus driver himself, a middle aged man with a receding hairline and smile lines wrinkling his cheeks.

All unique, innocent people with their own lives and stories. All in danger because Dean was there. His mouth suddenly felt dry, and Dean didn’t think he’d ever wished so badly for the ability to swallow.

A few uneventful hours passed in the bus. Abaddon left him alone, which, although cause for concern, was a relief. The feeling of not being alone in his own head, the knowledge that he couldn’t _think_ without Abaddon knowing, was unbearable. This was a whole new kind of violation, and even the illusion of a reprieve was welcome.

He tried not to, but Dean found himself wondering about Sam and Kevin and Cas, hoping they were safe and that his brother wasn’t tearing himself apart trying to find him. Although, if Sam had been willing to leave him and go with Death after the church, maybe he wasn’t too worried about Dean after all.

He pushed those thoughts away. He couldn’t rely on anyone to come to his rescue; regardless of whether they were trying or not, it might simply be impossible to drive Abaddon away. So he’d just have to do what he could to kick her out from the inside. Easy peasy, right? 

_“Wrong.”_ Dean lurched to his feet against his will, leaving his mind scrambling to keep up. Abaddon started making her (their?) way to the front of the bus. _“I think it’s time for a little fun, don’t you?”_

Before Dean could process what was going on, he was towering over the bus driver, who was trying to glare at him without taking his eyes off the road. “Hey, buddy, if you wanna get off all you have to do is press the--”

Abaddon cut him off mid sentence when she reached out with Dean’s hands, clasped them around the driver’s neck, and twisted it sharply to the right. The resulting _crack!_ elicited gasps and cries of fear from the back of the bus as the vehicle swerved wildly, but Dean didn’t have time to register any of that because Abaddon was tossing the man’s body to the side and taking his place in the driver’s seat to correct their course. His gaze was directed to their surroundings, and his numb shock was replaced with dread.

They were jerking off the main road and onto a small dirt one, crashing through several signs that barred entry. Up ahead was a small, old bridge spanning a river, a bridge that didn’t look like it had been used for vehicles for at least twenty years. And they were speeding up as they headed directly towards it. 

A moment passed as Dean sat, frozen. The little girl’s shrieks and everyone else’s terrified shouts echoed distantly in the back of his brain. Then the reality of what was about to happen settled in his mind, and he fought desperately to regain control of his body. A tightened muscle, a tapping foot, _anything_ to give him a sign that he wasn’t helpless to save these people’s lives.

But no matter how hard he pushed, pulled, or strained, they kept on hurtling towards the bridge. Abaddon was too goddamn strong, and despair began to eat at him. He was possessed by a Knight of Hell who was about to kill a busload of people just for fun, and there wasn’t anything he could do to stop it.

In the back of his head, Abaddon laughed.

Suddenly rage rushed up to meet him like an old friend. _Hell_ no, this wasn’t how he was going down. Abaddon might have his body, but there was no way he was gonna let her use it to hurt innocent people. He was Dean Winchester. He’d gone toe-to-toe with the devil and faced down worse shit than most people could dream of, and there was no _way_ he was letting some two bit demon get one up on him. Not today. 

He revolted with newfound strength, fighting through oppressive darkness and cobwebs in his brain until he felt something give. What started as a twitching finger quickly exploded into a tingling numbness throughout his entire body, and Dean gasped as he felt his nerves and muscles reconnecting with his brain.

But he couldn’t afford to properly orient himself. The front wheels of the bus had already met the lip of the bridge, and he could see a toothy gap in the asphalt stretching nearly to the opposite bank looming just a few yards away. Dean slammed on the brakes without hesitation, and the bus rocked forward as it slowed near the center of the bridge. They were cutting it too close, and Dean squeezed his eyes shut and tried to press on the brakes even harder. 

Then the bus settled to a halt, and Dean hesitantly opened his eyes. The hole in the bridge gaped mere inches from the front tires, the muddy river water churning angrily what must’ve been more than twenty feet below. If he’d pressed on the brakes even one second later, they’d all be dead.

Dean let out a shaky laugh. He’d done it. _He’d done it._ Running trembling hands through his hair, he turned in his seat, preparing to order the passengers to carefully exit the bus.

He only got one foot out of the well when his muscles froze.

Panic swept over him as he struggled to make himself move, but he was too late. Dean whipped back around, and all he could do was watch through those goddamn aviators as his foot slammed down on the accelerator.

///

Sam rubbed blearily at his eyes. He’d been staring at his computer for who knew how long, and neither Ezekiel nor Kevin had emerged with anything they could use to save Dean. Worse, Sam hadn’t made any progress in even tracking his brother down. No crop failures or any other unnatural phenomenon to indicate the work of a powerful demon, and although there were always horrible crimes and accidents to be found all over the news, nothing seemed to fit Dean’s description or Abaddon’s style. 

He sighed heavily, getting up to refill his mug for the third time. He knew he needed rest, that he wasn’t really doing anyone any good right then, but even the idea of sleeping while his brother was out there, being subjected to untold horrors by a fucking _Knight of Hell,_ made guilt prick at him like a thorn in his side. Well, more like a giant rusty tetanus-infused nail right through his chest. Yeah, that sounded right. 

Sam’s thoughts were interrupted by an ominously familiar creaking of hinges, and he furrowed his brow. It wasn’t like they were really expecting anyone, unless… 

Setting his mug down so hard he was sure it cracked, Sam rushed into the war room to meet Ezekiel and Kevin. Kevin looked like he’d gotten up too quickly and knocked over his chair in the process, and he was gripping the edge of the table tightly. Ezekiel stared intently at the door, impassive as always. Whoever was there had gotten through the outside door, but sure seemed to be taking their sweet time with the second (and more heavily warded) one. 

“Can you see who it is?” Sam asked the angel, curling his fists subconsciously.

“No,” Ezekiel responded. “I can sense a presence, but this construct’s warding prevents me from identifying them.”

Sam opened his mouth to ask something else, but he was cut off as the door swung open dramatically. And in the doorway, bloody and beaten, stood Cas.

Cas staggered forward, supporting himself against the railing, and locked eyes with Ezekiel. He furrowed his brow. “Who the hell are you?”

And Sam watched speechlessly as Cas slumped to the ground, unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys!! It's been a while, and I really am sorry about that -- I just got caught up in all the craziness of the virus, work, and trying to figure out where to go to college. I have been working on this in bits and pieces though, and I finally had enough for a chapter! Speaking of which, how about that cliffhanger, eh? Don't worry, I should be able to fill in the blanks pretty soon -- I already have lots of ideas for the next chapter :) I hope you enjoyed!


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, has it really been 4 months since I last posted? Yikes! Well, this chapter is a bit of a filler, I'll admit, but it sets up for some exciting things to come. I hope you enjoy!

Dean inhaled sharply, which turned out to be a mistake when the quick intake of oxygen hit the water in the back of his throat. He coughed and spluttered, rolling onto his side to try to dislodge the liquid from his lungs. 

By the time the coughing fit was over, black dots were dancing in front of his vision, and Dean groaned at the throbbing pain in his ribs and the back of his head. What an amazing time to remember that he’d had his ass handed to him by a couple of feather brains earlier that week. Yeah, he was loving this.

He was laying sideways on rocky soil that poked at him uncomfortably, and he could hear what sounded like a river gurgling nearby. It took a few slow blinks for his surroundings to come into focus, and the first thing he registered was that he was no longer looking through the dim film of aviators. Score. The next thing he noticed… _holy shit._

The Greyhound was tipped on its side, its nose smashed into the bank closest to Dean. Most of it was submerged, water lapping hungrily at its upturned belly and over its shattered windows, but Dean didn’t have to guess at the damage. Even he wouldn’t have been able to get the mangled remains of the bus up and running again. Jesus, it was a miracle he was still alive.

Around the bus floated several large pieces of colorful driftwood, and Dean pushed himself shakily to his feet to see them better through his still-blurry vision. He stumbled forward, his numb legs barely supporting him as he peered at the driftwood. They almost looked like…

Dean promptly threw up.

Scattered around the bus, washing up onto the riverbank or drifting gently downstream, were the bodies of the other passengers. They were already bloating past the point of recognition in the oppressive heat, and how long had Dean been lying there, passed out on the ground while innocents drowned?

He closed his eyes and planted his hands on his knees, his breath heaving. Oh god. Okay, some of them could still be alive. Even if Abaddon was still there, still… _inside_ him, he couldn’t do anything about it until he checked. Oh god, this was all his fault. They’d almost made it. They’d been _so_ close. _God_.

Forcing those thoughts away, Dean pushed himself painstakingly back to his feet on trembling legs. Distantly, he recognized the symptoms of shock, but there wasn’t anything he could do about that right then. He needed to prioritize the passengers. If even one of them was still alive…

Dean stumbled to the edge of the water, not hesitating to clumsily wade in. Thankfully this part of the river only came up just past Dean’s hips and was still warm from the summer, but cold seeped into Dean’s bones regardless, and he shivered violently.

The first body was entangled in a window frame of the bus, blood from the shattered glass coating their form. Swallowing roughly, Dean carefully grabbed the passenger’s shoulder and rolled them over. The mangled face of the teenage girl stared lifelessly up at him, mascara staining her cheeks. Dean felt a sob rise in his throat even as the nausea made a vicious reappearance, and he had to turn away, trying not to choke on vomit or tears. 

Each of the following bodies was the same. The elderly couple, the businesswoman, the driver whose neck he vividly remembered snapping, the mother and her daughter. None had survived, and each brought a fresh round of guilt and tears and despair. 

Finally, Dean knelt on the shore next to the little girl who he remembered waving to as he’d gotten on the bus. He grabbed the damp soil in front of him with pale and shaking hands, trying desperately to ground himself. Seven innocent people, people with lives and loved ones and who all undoubtedly deserved to be alive ten thousand times more than Dean, had died just because _he’d gotten on a bus._ How was any of this fair? How did any of this make any SENSE?

Dean glared down at the ground. “What do you want?” he whimpered. He rocked back on his heels then, screaming, “What do you WANT?!”

Abaddon didn’t answer, but for the first time since he’d woken up, he knew she was there. He could feel her laughing. 

Dean let out one last choked sob before collapsing onto the dirt, right next to the girl he’d killed. 

///

Sam and Ezekiel laid Cas on a cot in the med bay, heeding his probably-concussed head. He laid there limply, more from pure exhaustion than a head injury, Sam thought.

Human. Cas was fucking human. Dean had told him, but Sam hadn’t really believed it until now. Jesus, this was _just_ what they needed. But at least they had Cas back -- Sam would take a screwed-up Cas over no Cas any day of the week. 

Ezekiel was staring down at Cas impassively, unwilling or unable to feel or express any emotion. Reminded Sam of Cas a few years ago, actually. “Hey,” Sam said, catching the angel’s attention. “What did he mean?”

Ezekiel gazed steadily at him. “When he asked who I was, you mean?” Sam nodded, gratified he hadn’t tried to dodge the question. “If his grace has been removed, it is likely that he cannot see my angelic form. He does not recognize me in this human vessel.”

Sam searched his eyes. It seemed plausible, really, but there was something -- worry? Fear? -- in Ezekiel’s flat gaze that gave him pause. Hesitantly, he nodded -- he could talk to Cas about their new ally when he woke up. Speaking of which… “Can you heal him?” he asked, jerking his head at Cas’ limp form.

Ezekiel froze for just a moment, causing Sam to narrow his eyes in suspicion, but the angel recovered quickly. “Of course.”

Sam watched him make his way to Cas’ side, seemingly performing some sort of optical exam, even as Kevin entered the room with the clean clothes Sam had asked for. 

“What’s he doing,” Kevin whispered as he handed over the clothes. Sam nodded his gratitude and had just opened his mouth to respond when Cas suddenly bolted upright with a gasp, cuts and bruises evaporating quicker than drinkable water in Arizona. Ezekiel removed his fingers from his forehead and backed away, mouth set in a grim line, but Sam ignored him and moved to Cas’ side. 

“Hey man,” Sam gave Cas a watery smile, because oh shit, he was going to have to tell him about _Dean,_ as if the guy already didn’t have enough on his plate.

“Sam, what’s wrong?” Cas asked, voice raspier than usual from exhaustion or the ass beating he’d gotten or who knew what else. His searching eyes shifted away from Sam, taking in the two other occupants of the room. “Where’s Dean? And who’s that?”

Sam let out a strained little laugh at his friend’s oddly-timed perceptiveness. “That’s Ezekiel. Dean said he called you about him earlier? He, um, he helped us out, it’s kind of a long story.”

Cas eyed Ezekiel for a moment, before nodding slowly. “It’s good to see you again, brother.” 

Ezekiel's eyes widened a little, before he quickly schooled his expression and nodded back. “You as well.”

“And what about Dean?” Cas pushed, looking imploringly at Sam.

Sam swallowed. “It’s… it’s complicated. We’ll talk about Dean in a minute. What the hell happened to you?”

Cas furrowed his brow and stared down at the cot. “I was betrayed. Metatron stole my grace and cast me down from heaven. Then I found another angel who wanted to kill me and I was forced to crash our car and kill her, but a nice man drove me the rest of the way to Lebanon.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “I think he was trying to make advances on me. There was a fight.” 

Sam blinked. “Oh. Well, uh, are you okay?”

Cas nodded grimly. “I am fine.”

“Good.” Sam cleared his throat. “Look, we got you some clean clothes, so why don’t you change and then we can talk about everything.”

Cas cocked his head. “How would I change? I was under the impression that character was a rather difficult thing to alter.”

Sam closed his eyes and took a deep breath, mentally counting to three. “Not YOU Cas, your clothes. Here, Kevin got you some new ones.” He tossed the bundle at Cas, who caught them bemusedly.

“I understand,” he said, then promptly began taking his shirt off.

“No! Cas, stop!” Sam cried, even as Kevin made a strangled sort of choking noise. Cas stared up at him with a wounded expression, and Sam backed away. “Listen, we’ll give you some privacy, alright? Then you can change -- I mean, change your clothes.” He herded Kevin and Ezekiel outside the med bay, closing the door behind him. It was going to be a long couple of hours.

///

Somewhere along the line, Dean realized he should be using the time he had in control of his body to kick Abaddon out, go find Sam, _something,_ because otherwise things were only going to get worse. More people would get hurt, more people would _die,_ and he couldn’t live with that. He couldn’t.

And of course, the moment this thought crossed his mind was the very moment Abaddon took back control. Dean’s already unmoving body became rigid, and his senses seemed to heighten and become distant from him at the same time. Rage and defeat battled in his brain, but he eventually just ended up slumping, seething and helpless.

 _“Not so fast, hotshot,”_ she said, mirth still coloring her words. “ _We’re just getting started.”_

 _“Not if I can help it,”_ Dean fired back, but for the first time, his resolve wavered. For the first time, Dean wondered if maybe there wasn’t anything he could do.

Maybe trying was just making everything worse.

///

“Sam, may I speak to you for a moment?”

Sam jerked his head up from his computer screen, not having heard Cas walk up. Which usually wouldn’t have been strange, except for the fact that their feathered friend was now featherless. He glanced back at an article title that had grabbed his attention -- “Greyhound accident kills 7” -- before reluctantly closing his laptop. Research could wait. “Sure, Cas, what’s up?”

Cas looked troubled, his damp hair dripping onto the collar of the t-shirt they’d given him. Sam had insisted he take a shower after they had explained everything, but something told him the angel (ex-angel?) wasn’t used to addressing basic hygiene. 

Sam wondered if Cas’ expression had more to do with what had happened to Dean, or his failure to close the gates of Hell. After all, if he’d completed the Trials, Abaddon would’ve never --

“Sam, I do not believe Ezekiel is who he says he is.”

Sam froze. “What? But Dean-”

“Called me about him, yes, but I only heard a name. I fought with Ezekiel. This angel’s mannerisms… they do not reflect his.”

Sam bit his lip. “Do you think he could be dangerous?”

Cas nodded slowly. “I cannot be sure, especially because he seems to have done nothing but help you, but it is a possibility we cannot neglect.”

Sam sighed, running a hand through his (admittedly kind of greasy) hair. “Well, then we have to confront him.”

“Sam, I’m not sure that’s the wisest-”

“We don’t have time for this, Cas!” Sam barked. “Abaddon has Dean, and I need to be able to trust all of you to help me find him. That includes Ezekiel, or -- or whoever he is.” He pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. “We’ll use holy fire, okay? Just in case things go south. But we need to do this now.”

“Do what now?”

Sam and Cas whipped around to see none other than Ezekiel standing in the doorway to the kitchen. His expression was cold, but there was a nervousness about him that made Sam sure he’d heard more than enough of that conversation. Sam exchanged a glance with Cas, wishing desperately that he’d kept his angel blade on him.

Tension seemed to spark in all corners of the room. Sam furiously scrambled for a way to backtrack, to salvage the situation so they could do this under his terms, but Cas clenched his jaw and stepped forward before he could get a word out. “You are not Ezekiel,” he declared bluntly.

Not-Ezekiel glared right back, but then the fire seemed to die in his eyes, to be replaced with -- shame? “You are right,” he nodded, eyes downcast. “It was wrong of me to attempt to impersonate such a noble angel.”

“Who are you?” Sam demanded.

The angel looked up, eyes glowing faintly. “I am Gadreel.” 

Shocked silence enveloped them for a total of three seconds, and then Cas was charging the angel and pinning him against the tiled wall. _“You,”_ he spat venemously.

Gadreel stared down at Castiel, not saying a word, clearly allowing himself to be held there.

Sam stood back warily, not wanting to intervene just yet. “What are you talking about, Cas? Who is he?”

 _“Gadreel,”_ Cas said, treating the name like a curse, “was the angel tasked with guarding the Garden of Eden. He let Lucifer in, and humanity fell. He is the reason for all of our suffering.”

“It was a mistake,” Gadreel protested. “I was deceived. Please, let me redeem myself. I cannot go back there.”

“Wait, wait,” Sam interrupted, head reeling. “Go back where, exactly?”

Gadreel turned his pleading gaze on Sam. “I was kept in Heaven’s prison for millennium. I am only free now because of the fall. Please, I still believe in our mission, our purpose in protecting humanity. I healed you and rescued your friends, did I not? You can trust me.” 

Sam nodded to Cas, and he reluctantly released Gadreel. “You shouldn’t have lied,” Sam said. “But you have helped us, and I can’t ignore that. If you help us find Dean, we won’t tell your brothers and sisters about you.”

Gadreel nodded eagerly. “You are making a wise decision, Sam. You will not regret it.” And with that, the angel made his way out of the room, presumably to continue helping Kevin search for an exorcism that would work on a Knight of Hell.

Cas gripped Sam’s shoulder, forcing him to face him. “This could be a huge mistake, Sam.”

Sam jerked his shoulder away. “You think I don’t know that? We need him, Cas. You’re powered down, and Abaddon is a Knight of Hell. We’ll keep an eye on him, but we’re not writing him off, either. Besides,” Sam added. “from what I could tell, he was being honest.”

Cas nodded slowly. “It seems that way. But do not forget that he managed to deceive you about his identity until now. He may be doing so again.”

“And for now, we’re just gonna have to take that chance,” Sam said grimly.

///

The next time Dean was completely aware of his surroundings, he was in a bar, and _wow,_ he was really not as drunk as he wanted to be. And, evidently, wasn’t going to get any drunker, seeing as he still didn’t have an ounce of control over his body. Fantastic. 

He managed to catch a glimpse of the somewhat un-charmingly rustic setting, before his eyes were forcibly focused on the girl in front of him, and his heart sank.

She was pretty, in an amazonian sort of way. Tall, blonde, muscular. A woman who could handle herself, under normal circumstances. 

These circumstances were anything but. Everyone in this room was in serious danger, especially her, and Dean had no way to warn her. 

“So, Megan,” Dean heard himself say, felt his mouth curl into a smirk. “Wanna get out of here?”

Megan flashed a blinding smile back, one Dean would’ve completely fallen for if he wasn’t nearly vibrating with terror. “You bet.”

Dean strained hopelessly against his mental bonds once more as he stood up to lead Megan out of the bar. _God, no,_ this couldn’t be happening, not again --

 _“Oh, it can,”_ Abaddon purred. _“Just you wait and see.”_

And Dean could do nothing but watch with dread as Abaddon settled one of his arms possessively around Megan’s shoulders and they walked down the street together. 

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: I know the end there is a little suggestive, but this fic will NOT include any rape. Even so, there will be violence and gore similar to what we've already seen, but I don't think I'm including anything worse than what we see in the show. Of course, if anyone wants me to add any tags, trigger warnings, or move the rating up, I absolutely will. 
> 
> Like I said, this chapter was a bit of a filler, but I hope you enjoyed it anyway! There are much more exciting things to follow -- and more Dean angst, of course! I forgot how much I miss writing him. I doubt I'll take that long of a break from writing this again -- in fact, I'm hoping to finish this fic before July, so hopefully that means one or two chapters a month from here on out. I'd love to hear any feedback you guys have to give!


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another chapter! Consider this a New Year's present from me to you :) also, for the purposes of this fic, I'm saying s9 started somewhere in late September/early October. I'm too lazy to figure out the actual timeline. Enjoy!

Megan didn’t survive the night. Not that Dean had really expected her to.

They’d barely made it back to her apartment when Abaddon turned on her, twisting Dean’s face into a cruel leer right before she broke the woman’s jaw with one fist. Dean struggled desperately at first, but there didn’t seem to be a point after her head caved in.

It was sick, senseless murder. And it was only the beginning. 

Days, weeks, maybe even months passed by in a blur. Abaddon would submerge Dean deep in his mind, alone in the darkness with his own fatalistic thoughts and memories for indeterminate amounts of time. Then, suddenly, she would pull him to the surface at the very moment when he had no power, when Dean’s hand was already elbow-deep in someone’s insides or a blade inches from their throat, with demonic momentum too powerful for him to divert. He would be forced to watch with horror as his own hands, his own failure ended another innocent person’s life.

But when it came to psychological torture, Abaddon was a master, and that was far from the only trick up her leather sleeve. Sometimes she would bring him back to his senses, allow him to see and hear and feel everything as she spent days or even weeks befriending the guys at a local bar or flirting with some woman, only for her to turn their entire lives upside down. She’d manipulate them, murder their family members in front of them, hell, Dean was pretty sure she’d managed to frame one guy for murder. Some small, dark, hopeless part of Dean wondered if the ones she ended up killing were lucky. 

When she started messing with his senses, though. That was the worst. Somewhere along the line, Abaddon came up with the brilliant idea to start shutting Dean up in his mind, but instead of suddenly thrusting full control and awareness upon him at once and then quickly stripping it away like he’d expected, she would keep control, and only expose him to one or two senses at a time. Sometimes he couldn’t see or feel, could only hear the terrified pleas and quickly cut off screams of whoever she’d decided to kill. Sometimes he’d only taste blood and ash, or feel a drying coat of gore harden on his skin. Feel his hands tear things apart without having any idea what or who they were tearing into. Sometimes the smell of smoke and alcohol, blood and entrails would wash over him, disorienting and overwhelming him. Sometimes he could only watch from afar, like he was sitting in a silent movie theater with his hands and feet tied down.

It was horrifyingly, terrifyingly familiar. Like being in the Pit all over again, and not knowing which blood belonged to him and which belonged to the souls he was ripping into. Not knowing whether he was ripping into himself or someone else. 

And throughout it all, Abaddon laughed. Taunting him, mocking him, mirth seeping into her words like salt and vinegar into a wound. And Dean was running out of ways to tell her to go fuck herself sideways.

But today was a new day, and neither of them gave up that easily.

Dean had just been graciously granted his sight, and he was able to blearily focus on his surroundings. Abaddon hadn’t really been letting him get much shut-eye, and even if she could easily power through sleeplessness, Dean couldn’t. She didn’t eat or drink much either (unless you counted tequila), just enough to keep him going. He had to be at least kind of alive for her to properly destroy his psyche, he figured. But she was definitely doing the bare minimum, based on the shooting pain in his bad knee and dull ache in his ribs and shoulder. Some of her -- their -- victims fought back, after all, and Abaddon apparently didn’t feel inclined to repair the damage. 

So Dean winced internally as she lumbered his battered body carelessly down the street, and looked around. Well, as much as he could without actually moving his eyeballs. Gah, he’d never get used to that.

Okay, another completely unfamiliar street in another completely unfamiliar town. No surprise there. They were probably heading down to a local restaurant or watering hole, or hey, why not hit up another library? Public service employees were practically fish in a barrel.

Dean stifled his hopeless sarcasm and steeled himself. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter that he’d failed to save anyone Abaddon had targeted in the last -- last however long this had been going on. He had to keep trying. He had to keep trying, because if he stopped, that would mean he’d done NOTHING to save an innocent person’s life, and that was unacceptable.

_ “Aww,”  _ Abaddon crooned,  _ “still delusional, then?” _

_ “Still a psychotic bitch, then?”  _ Dean snapped back.

_ “Well that’s a little rude,”  _ Abaddon pouted.  _ “You don’t even know what we’re doing today.”  _ But there was an undeniable grin to her voice that belied her words. Dean knew what they were doing today. It was the same thing they did every day. And just like every day, he’d do his best to be ready, so help him God. 

Unexpectedly, Abaddon stopped right in between a farmer’s market and a strip mall, loitering casually near a street lamp on the sidewalk. The midday sun glared down at them despite the slight chill in the air, and Dean suddenly felt very exposed. Which, surprisingly enough, hadn’t really been a big part of his experience with the hell bitch so far. 

_ “Alright, Abaddon,”  _ Dean growled.  _ “What’s your game?” _

Abaddon neglected to respond, just leaned against the street lamp, crossing Dean’s arms and surveying the drowsily buzzing crowd with a slight grin. Well, this couldn’t mean anything good.

Dean figured they must have been standing there, looking suspicious, for a good twenty minutes, when the crowd began thickening a little as people finished lunch and got back to whatever they’d been doing. This was also the precise moment at which Dean realized everything was about to go to shit.

He felt his fingers twitch and reach around to the back of his waistband where, oh yeah, Abaddon had stashed that wussy Glock she’d picked up. Seeing as that was the weapon of choice of most law enforcement agencies, Dean really didn’t want to try digging through the jumble in his head for the exact origins of the gun. Not that it mattered where it came from; what did matter was the fact that Abaddon was pulling a short, middle aged man from the crowd and angling the gun against his temple. 

Dean hardly had time to register what he was seeing before his fingers were squeezing down on the trigger and the man’s brains were getting blown out. Quick and clean, but out in the open, with none of Abaddon’s usual haphazard precautions to keep his face out of the papers. No, this wasn’t just for fun anymore; this murder was meant to call attention to them.

Which Dean probably would have realized sooner, had he not been busy gaping at the lifeless body in front of him and struggling to keep himself from dissassociating completely.

What he also should’ve realized earlier was that Abaddon hadn’t just been scanning the crowd for targets; she’d been looking for a cop. And, unfortunately for everyone, she’d found one, who was booking it towards them with her own handgun pointed at Dean’s chest. 

“Freeze! Place your weapon on the ground and put your hands in the air!” the cop yelled as she ran at them from where she’d been casually surveying the (now frantic) crowd. 

And to Dean’s complete and utter shock, Abaddon complied.

She slowly placed the Glock on the ground before kneeling next to it with Dean’s hands behind his head, only moments before the officer pushed her way out of the crowd and slapped cuffs on Dean’s wrists. Abaddon didn’t say a word as the officer called for backup and read her her Miranda rights, didn’t protest as she was pulled roughly to Dean’s feet (and OW, seriously, his KNEE), didn’t make a move when she was shoved into the back of a police cruiser. She stared disinterestedly out the window as the police attempted to control the crowd and secure the crime scene, and Dean was too shocked and baffled to do more than watch.

This just didn’t make any sense. Everything Abaddon had been doing had been to mess with his head, and she was brutally creative -- a simple homicide just would not do it for her. No, there was something more going on here.

_ “Dean, Dean,”  _ Abaddon chided amusedly.  _ “What have I been telling you? Stop asking so many questions and just enjoy the ride.” _

Dean didn’t respond, trying to get his frazzled emotions under control. He pushed down his guilt and shock at the abrupt murder of that man; right now, he needed to figure out what Abaddon was up to.

It wouldn’t matter, in the end. But he still had to try, didn’t he? He still had to try.

///

Sam clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to slam his hand into the Impala’s dashboard in frustration. Another fucking dead end. He’d been following up a lead in Nebraska, but the natural disasters and string of murders turned out to be just a freaky coincidence. Abaddon was wreaking havoc in Dean’s body, that was for sure, but she was laying low enough or moving around quickly enough to prevent large scale demonic omens. 

Sam had picked up her trail before, sure; he and Cas had visited the scenes of a mass shooting in a Conneticut library and a supposed murder-suicide in Ohio that screamed demon: brutal, senseless killings with traces of sulfur left behind. Oh, and yeah, vague descriptions of an involved suspect who sounded a lot like Dean. But Abaddon could fucking apparate, so she was always long gone by the time Sam got there. 

The only good news was that Gadreel and Kevin had managed to piece together an exorcism that they thought would get Abaddon out of Dean, but they couldn’t  _ do  _ anything with it until they actually  _ found _ Abaddon and Dean.

God,  _ Dean.  _ It was two months since Abaddon had disappeared with his brother, and that was just too long for anyone to be possessed and stay sane. A week had been awful for Sam (not that he was going to think about that, this was definitely  _ not  _ the time to think about that), and he couldn’t imagine a month, let alone  _ two.  _

He tried to remind himself that Dean was strong, that he’d been through literal Hell, that he was tougher than ever since Purgatory. All of which was true, but a small, niggling voice in the back of his head wondered about Carencro, and he shoved down painful memories of an abandoned meat-packing facility and a familiar white-eyed demon. Alastair may be dead, and Dean may be stronger for his scars, but scars were still old wounds, and they could be exploited.

So Sam silently begged Dean to hold on, and he pushed himself to his limits and then some to save his brother. He was exhausted, and he knew he couldn’t keep this up forever, but he could (or would, at any rate) for long enough to get his brother back. Then he’d sleep for a month.

Cas shifted uncomfortably in the seat beside him, and Sam was reminded of yet another pressing issue that they’d put on the backburner. Cas was human now, and it was obviously a pretty difficult adjustment for him. For one, he’d never really needed to pay attention to basic necessities or hygiene before, which led to quite a few uncomfortable life lessons from Sam. Even worse, though, was the heavy cloud of despair that seemed to follow Cas wherever he went. He missed his wings, Sam knew, and he felt useless without his grace. Sam reasoned that he probably just didn’t feel like  _ himself, _ in the same way Sam wouldn’t if he suddenly had his arm chopped off and was turned into a vampire. 

So, yeah, things pretty much sucked ass, and doing their best just wasn’t good enough. They hadn’t found Dean, Cas was a mess, Kevin was a nervous wreck, and they still didn’t really know if they could trust Gadreel. He’d proven himself useful over the last few months, sure, and on the occasions when he went out into the field he was nothing but helpful. Regardless, he’d faced no real test of loyalty so far, so Sam kept his guard up, and told Cas and Kevin to do the same. 

Sam refocused on the road in front of him, shaking himself mentally. One problem at a time. So Nebraska had been a bust. There was still that unidentified arsonist in Wyoming, or --

The shrill ring of his cell phone brought Sam up short, and he fumbled for a moment before pulling the offending device from his jacket pocket and squinting at the screen. Jody. Oh, please dear God let her have a lead.

“Hey, Jody, what’s up?” Sam asked casually, and no, he was definitely  _ not  _ crossing his fingers over the steering wheel.

_ “Sam,”  _ she greeted.  _ “I’ve been pokin’ out feelers like you asked, and I think I might have something for you. Look, do you happen to be anywhere near West Iowa?” _

“As a matter of fact, I do,” Sam said, mildly shocked at this turn of good luck.

_ “I put out a vague description of Dean to some of my sheriff buddies, and a friend of a friend got back to me just now. They brought someone in this morning who sounds an awful lot like him in a small town near the border. Sloan, I think it’s called.” _

Sam swallowed dryly. Not that he wasn’t thrilled to have a lead, but if this really was Abaddon… “What’d they bring him in for?” 

Jody was quiet for a moment.  _ “Homocide. Completely unprovoked, it sounds like.” _

Sam nodded jerkily, gave a quick thank you before hanging up. Jesus. This couldn’t be anything good.

Cas regarded him warily, clearly taking in the new tension in Sam’s expression. “What is it?”

Sam checked the road signs, started angling them towards Iowa. “We have a lead.”

///

Abaddon, and therefore Dean, squinted nonchalantly up at the industrial lights in what was undeniably the interrogation room. One-way window, bolted-down table and chair, a nice little metal bar for her (their) handcuffs to attach to -- yup, the whole nine yards. Although, Dean thought removedly, considering where he was and why, he was probably focusing on the wrong details. 

But it wasn’t like he’d made any headway playing guess-what-the-evil-bitch-is-up-to. She could’ve broken out of these handcuffs at any moment and killed everyone in a twelve foot radius, easy, but instead she just went along with it, like she  _ wanted _ to be arrested. 

Oh. Well, shit.

_ “I was wondering when you were going to figure that out,”  _ Abaddon mused. 

Dean wanted to ask what the  _ hell  _ he’d figured out, since there was no feasible reason he could think of that Abaddon would want to get arrested, even if she  _ was  _ fucking crazy. But he never got the chance, because at that very moment, an officer entered the interrogation room. 

Or, two officers, as it turned out. The first officer, the deceptively lithe woman who’d arrested them, was followed closely by a second, a short man with a stern expression who looked like he hadn’t stepped out of the precinct in the last decade or so. Abaddon leaned back casually in her seat and gave them a smug smile, clearly not unnerved in the slightest.

The man pulled out the seat across from them, while the woman stood beside him with a warning hand on her holster. The man folded his hands in front of him and regarded Abaddon (and Dean) cooly. “I’m sure Officer Berkeley here has read you your rights?”

Abaddon’s smile widened. “Sure has. Can’t say I was listening though.” Dean would’ve blinked at her word choice if he’d had the capacity to. It sounded -- well, it sounded like something he would say. 

The man nodded, and took the file that the woman -- Officer Berkeley -- handed him. “We ran your prints. Came up with a dead felon named Dean Winchester. Can you tell me anything about him?”

Dean’s heart sank even as Abaddon leaned forward. “You bet your ass I can. He’s one handsome motherfucker, that’s for sure.”

_ “Aww, you really think so?”  _ Dean thought sarcastically. Abaddon didn’t dignify him with a response. 

“Why’d you do it?” Officer Berkeley suddenly interrupted. The other officer looked surprised at her intrusion, but didn’t seem inclined to stop her. “I saw you. That guy you shot was completely random. Why?”

Abaddon’s smile became feral, and geez, it would be just Dean’s fucking luck if his face got stuck this way. “It was fun, that’s why. You like going to the bar with your buddies to blow off steam, I like to blow people’s brains out. I don’t see anything wrong with that.”

Officer Berkeley paled, but then her eyes grew cold. “Sergeant Ramirez, I advise we move him down to a holding cell and wait for the feds.”

Sergeant Ramirez nodded. “My thoughts exactly. I guess you didn’t need to listen to your rights after all, Winchester. Where you’re going, you won’t have any.” 

That stupid smile didn’t leave Dean’s face as they were escorted to a holding cell, but Abaddon didn’t struggle, at least. Dean was beyond confused at her endgame. Get him arrested? Dump him in federal prison and leave him there? Nothing really fit her M.O., and that was starting to freak him out a little. 

Officer Berkeley finally shoved Dean behind bars, leaving his cuffs on. There was a window down the hall, and Abaddon glanced at it long enough for Dean to tell the sun was beginning to dip towards the horizon. But why the hell would Abaddon care about the time of day?

Before he could ponder it further, a harsh sob from the cell next to him caught his attention. It was the only other occupied cell of the four -- slow day, apparently. The guy was a wreck, curling his somewhat disheveled frame into the corner of the cell and bawling his eyes out. Pathetic schmuck was probably in here for petty theft or something. 

Apparently he’d caught Abaddon’s attention too, because she made her way over to the bars separating them. “Hey, snotty,” she called, in another frighteningly good imitation of Dean. “What are you in for?”

If anything, he started sobbing even harder at the words. “I didn’t do it!” he cried. “They can’t take me away, I didn’t do it! They’re lying!”

Dean felt Abaddon’s interest pique at this response, but whatever she was thinking, she wasn’t sharing. He felt Abaddon shrug his shoulders and move to take a seat on the lone bench in their cell. 

And they waited. For what, Dean didn’t know, but the nervous anticipation was driving him insane. He wanted to escape before the feds got there, before there was no way out, but he couldn’t  _ move. _ But… but then again, if Abaddon did leave him in prison, at least he’d have his body back. At least he wouldn’t be trapped in his own skin. He would take that. He would take anything over this. 

The sun finally set about an hour later, and when Abaddon stood up and snapped her handcuffs off in one easy motion, he was forced to rethink his analysis of the situation.

_ “What, you really thought I’d leave you alone in prison?”  _ Abaddon scoffed.  _ “Give you this priceless body back just like that? Come on, Dean, you know me better than that.” _

Dean’s blood ran cold as she shoved the door to the cell open with a  _ crack!  _ as the lock broke. If she wasn’t handing him over to the feds, then what --

Abaddon began making her way down the hall to the center of the police precinct. A precinct that was filled with clueless officers holding nothing but useless handguns.

Oh, no.

_ “Oh, yes,”  _ Abaddon purred.  _ “Let’s have some fun.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annnd another cliffhanger. I'd be shocked if any of you were still surprised at this point. I was originally planning on including a lot more in this chapter, but the word count got high a lot quicker than I expected. Let's just say this is setting up for some really juicy stuff next chapter ;)
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't know anything about police procedure or the layout of police precincts. Bear with me.
> 
> Finally, I hope you enjoyed that chapter! I finally have a good idea of how the next few chapters are going to go (I know what I'm doing I swear) so another update should be coming relatively soon.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Have you ever heard of Chekov's Gun? It's a literary principle that essentially means that every part of the story serves a purpose... keep that in mind ;)
> 
> Disclaimer: I know nothing about police procedure. Or precincts. Or scanners. What little scanner code I do use in this chapter I got from a website: 11-99 means "officer needs help" and 10-53 means "man down." 
> 
> And a warning: There is a mention of rape in this chapter. It doesn't happen to any main characters and the mention is not explicit at all, but it's still there. I know that this is a very sensitive topic, so I will be adding it to the tags and will absolutely change this fic's rating if any of you would like me to. Please feel free to share your opinion on this in the comments.

Sam pulled up to the curb, hardly bothering to bring the Impala to a halt before leaping out of the car. He took his gun from his waistband, sweat beading on his forehead as he aimed it at the doors of the precinct and carefully began making his way forward. Please, please let it not be too late --

But it was. Oh, god, it was too late, because there was Dean, strutting out of the precinct without a care in the world. 

And he was covered in blood. 

Soaked in it, more accurately, from the roots of his hair to the beds of his fingernails. When he grinned at Sam, the crevices between his teeth were stained red.

Cas tensed next to him, angel blade held like he didn’t really know what to do with it. Sam wasn’t faring much better, aiming his gun half-heartedly at his brother. They all knew it was a bluff; his safety wasn’t even off.

Dean’s manic grin grew to face-splitting, and dried blood flaked lazily from his skin. “Heya, Sammy.”

**41 MINUTES EARLIER**

The hallway leading away from the holding cells was cold and barren in the harsh lighting of the precinct. Dean felt himself stalking smoothly forward, even as his aching body protested fruitlessly. He was sick and tired of Abaddon abusing his body from the inside, and he was sick and tired of the blood on his hands. Of which, if he was right, there was about to be a lot more.  _ Christ,  _ why couldn’t the hell bitch just-

“Wait!”

The hopeful call interrupted Dean’s train of thought, even as Abaddon turned slowly, a smug -- smug? -- smile on Dean’s lips. None other than Snotty, their sort-of cellmate, gripped the bars, staring after them desperately. “Take me with you! Please?” he whined.

Abaddon’s lip curled, clearly not impressed in the pathetic display. For once, Dean was inclined to feel similarly. “Wait your turn,” she replied imperiously.

Okay, what the hell did  _ that  _ mean? 

Without acknowledging either of them further, Abaddon exited the holding cell area into the adjacent hallway, and Dean was pretty certain at this point that he was the most fucked he’d been in a long time. 

Oh, did he mention there was a gun aimed at him? Yeah, turns out the officer standing by the coffee machine wasn’t too keen on escaped prisoners.

It would be sad how quickly Abaddon disarmed him if it weren’t terrifying.

Dean’s hands were wrapped around the officer’s throat before he could cry out for help, but Abaddon didn’t snap his neck like Dean had expected. Instead, she pressed down on his windpipe, slowly crushing it until the man’s choked gurgling subsided and the life seeped from his eyes. Dean watched in horror, literally unable to tear his eyes away, even as Abaddon squeezed harder for good measure, grinning gleefully the entire time.

Not a single officer had been close enough to notice the altercation, and come  _ on,  _ Dean did not remember this goddamn precinct having so many hallways. He was torn between wishing someone would just stop him and desperately wanting everyone to run for their lives.

_ “They couldn’t run fast enough if they tried,” _ Abaddon grinned cockily, reaching first for the officer’s gun but then pulling his baton from his belt instead. She flicked Dean’s wrist, extending the weapon to its full length.  _ “Much more fun than a gun, don’t you think?” _

Abaddon didn’t wait for him to respond, not that Dean felt inclined to. He was busy railing against his mental restraints, because holy  _ fuck _ , Abaddon was going to slaughter this entire precinct and he had to do  _ something.  _ A familiar sense of horror and hopelessness swept over him as they grew closer and closer to the center of the precinct without him having made a dent. He wasn’t strong enough. He was  _ never  _ strong enough. 

And with that terribly familiar thought, they emerged into the bright lights of the bullpen. 

For a moment, no one seemed to be the wiser. Officers sat at their desks, tiredly sifting through paperwork or chatting quietly. In the adjoining offices, higher-ups typed boredly at their computers. Just another late night shift at the precinct. 

Then a young, freckled officer looked up from what looked to be a riveting game of Candy Crush, and met their gaze blandly. Seconds crawled by before he finally seemed to realize who he was looking at, and his eyes blew wide as he scrambled up from his desk, letting out a stuttering shout.

Abaddon grinned ferally, and that’s when things really went to shit.

She strode straight up to the freckled kid, never breaking eye contact, ignoring the shouted commands to get on the ground as everyone realized what was going on. The kid tried desperately to back away from her, but Abaddon reached out and gripped his shoulder, preventing him from retreating any further. In one swift motion, she thrust the baton through his chest.

The kid gaped at her in shock, grappling uselessly for his gun. Abaddon yanked the baton ruthlessly from his body, and he let out a choked cry as he collapsed to the ground.

Before Abaddon had even finished pulling the gore-coated baton away, guns were firing. It only took one thoughtless wave of Abaddon’s hand and the officers flew backwards, slamming into walls and desks like bugs into windshields. The wave of power was so strong that the lights flickered and went out even as the bullets changed course midair, some even managing to hit downed officers.

From then on, it was full-fledged warfare. Abaddon made her way around the bullpen, dispatching officers quickly and brutally, somehow evading any bullets that came their way. Some she impaled, some she bashed over the head until the grey matter showed, some she broke open with her -- his -- bare hands. And no matter how hard Dean struggled, there was nothing he could do. 

Until, suddenly, he could.

It was like being pulled from the bottom of a cold lake and being thrown directly into the Sahara desert. Dean gasped as his ears popped and his limbs tingled as full feeling returned to them, intensely aware of his heart beating so hard it was almost audible. He stumbled against a nearby wall, trying to force his eyes to adjust to the darkness so he could escape or sabotage Abaddon or… or  _ something. _

But they never did. 

Abaddon had effectively blinded him, which meant this wasn’t an opportunity. This was a trap.

He really should’ve known better.

Someone -- or several someones -- was yelling, but Dean couldn’t make out what they were saying past the ringing in his ears. He made his way along the wall, half running in the hope of not getting shot. He’d hardly made it five feet when he tripped over something soft and pliable, and just barely managed to catch himself on the slippery floor. His hands stuck a little when he tried to push himself up, and it was all Dean could do to not throw up. 

Then someone’s knee was making contact with his back, driving him to the ground, and Dean felt a flicker of hope. If he could just stay in control long enough for the officers to get him under control --

All of a sudden his right arm reached around and pulled the officer off of him with inhuman force, slamming him to the ground. Dean desperately tried to stop, but none of the rapid signals fired from his brain reached his arm; it was completely out of his control. Abaddon was  _ playing  _ with him. Dean thought he’d probably be homicidal with rage if he weren’t completely overcome with horror and shock. 

He tried to scramble back from the officer, to push him away with his left hand, but Abaddon already had a hold, and was more than capable of squeezing the life out of him with just one hand. Dean felt the vertebrae of the man’s spine crackle and then snap beneath his fingers, and he was reminded dazedly of the cheap Rice Crisp cereal he used to eat as a kid.

Suddenly a wave of dizziness swept over him, and he nearly toppled as control of his arm was returned to him. He jerked his arm away from the officer’s neck, stumbling to his feet as his vision spun. Which was exactly when he realized that he could see again.

It was also exactly when he realized that there was a gun leveled at his chest. Again.

Dean didn’t even have time to put his hands up before it was firing.

The gun had been at point-blank range; even if the officer had been a terrible shot -- which he suspected from the gray in her hair and the pins on her sleeve that she was not -- there was no way she was missing. So Dean wasn’t exactly surprised when the bullet slammed into his chest with what felt like ten tons of concentrated force.

Dean had been shot before. Several times, in fact. There was that hunt gone wrong when he was seventeen, another when he was twenty-three, the shotgun incident at Roosevelt Asylum, Meg that one time she’d possessed Sam, the demon at the police precinct… the list went on. With the exception of the shotgun, it typically started as a dull impact before the burning, hot-poker pain made itself known, and then it really became a pain in the ass.

This was nothing like that.

Apparently Abaddon thought it would be really cool and fun to shut off whatever part of his brain dealt with physical trauma and managed the pain. So instead of a light pressure and a burning pain, this felt more akin to having someone thrust a chainsaw through his chest and keep it there. Actually, make that two chainsaws. Both of which were on fire.

He probably would’ve passed out or collapsed on the spot, but Abaddon took over again, pushing him into the dark corner of his mind where he could experience everything without participating in it. Really, today was just all sorts of fun. 

She grabbed the smoking gun out of the hands of the shell-shocked officer and shot her, evidently bored with her more extensive killing methods. Silence rang out ominously after the gunshot. 

Everyone was dead.

Well, almost everyone, anyway. 

The young officer from before -- Officer Berkeley -- stepped out from behind a corner, rifle hefted on her shoulder. Someone made a little trip to the armory, apparently.

“Stop right there!” Berkeley shouted, trying desperately to keep her voice from wavering while pointedly  _ not _ looking at the eleven -- twelve? -- bodies littering the floor. Dean would’ve thought it admirable if he weren’t so damn terrified for her. 

Abaddon tilted Dean’s head. “You really think that thing’s gonna work on me? How cute.” She gave a lazy wave of her hand, and the rifle flew out of the officer’s grip. Abaddon raised her own gun, pointing it steadily. “Come on, darling. We’re taking a trip to the back.”

///

The needle on the speedometer was just teasing ninety, which wasn’t necessarily unheard of in their line of work, but was certainly pushing it. The only things keeping Sam from trying to go even faster were a healthy fear of getting caught by the cops, and the knowledge that if anything happened to his baby, Dean would kill him.

But Sam would gladly wreck the Impala a dozen times if it just meant he could get to Dean faster.

“Sam,” Cas said suddenly, bringing his attention to the police scanner he’d been fiddling with. 

Sam had told Cas to try to pick up the local frequency while he drove, which Cas had been working at determinedly (if confusedly) for the last thirty minutes or so. Sam hadn’t really thought much would come of it, given Cas’ general ineptitude with technology, but apparently they’d gotten lucky, because the static was interrupted by muffled voices. 

“-- an 11-99 at the station, I repeat, several 10-53’s at the precinct, we require immediate --” 

The message was interrupted by several gunshots and unintelligible yelling, right before the line went dead. Sam tightened his grip on the steering wheel. Whatever he’d expected upon hearing that Dean -- Abaddon -- had been arrested, this hadn’t been it. 

Neither of them spoke as static filled the car again and the Impala roared impatiently. Cas likely didn’t understand what the code had meant, but he’d heard the gunshots, and that was enough. They both knew how bad this was.

“Sam,” Cas began, eyeing the clench of his friend’s jaw warily. “What will we do once we find Dean? I am powerless, and we have no other way to subdue Abaddon.” 

Sam jerked a hand away from the wheel to scuff at the stubble on his jaw, staring through the windshield without really seeing. “I don’t know, Cas. We have the exorcism, but we don’t even know for sure that it’ll work. Maybe if we had Gadreel here…” he shook his head. “We just -- we have to try, okay? We have to try.”

Cas turned away, his brows furrowing in uncharacteristic anxiety. Not that Sam could blame him. Cas was human, and had never faced anything like Abaddon before without some means to defend himself. But Cas would do anything it took to get Dean back, just like Sam would.

Sam just hoped it would be enough. 

///

Abaddon had pulled the bullet out of his chest slowly, agonizingly, as she led the officer through the precinct at gunpoint. Dean would’ve screamed if he could have, but instead the pain reverberated through him without release, until finally the bullet clattered innocently to the floor, as if it hadn’t just pulverized Dean’s organs and been pulled telekinetically from his body by a demon.

He tried desperately to ignore the feeling of his insides knitting back together -- Abaddon didn’t want her meatsuit too damaged, apparently -- and focused on his surroundings. It didn’t take him long to recognize that Abaddon was taking them back towards the holding cells. It took him a little longer to realize that somewhere along the line, she’d picked up a file, and was holding it innocuously in his left hand. He tried to remember when she’d grabbed it, what it was about, but nothing came to mind. Which likely meant some kind of small scale memory wipe. Great. 

She finally pried open the door leading to the cells, and Snotty, their old cellmate, scrambled up from the floor at the noise. Abaddon ignored him, grabbing Officer Berkeley by her hair and throwing her carelessly into the adjoining cell before slamming the door shut. She leveled the handgun at the officer’s head. 

“Now then,” she grinned. “Let’s play a game, shall we, Dean?”

Abaddon tossed the file toward Berkeley, just within arms reach from the bars of the cell. She jerked her head at it. “Go ahead, take a look.”

Officer Berkeley glanced between a bloody Abaddon -- or Dean, from her perspective -- and the gun, eyes wide with fear. She took a trembling breath, trying to regain some composure, and crawled to the edge of the cell, reaching out to grab the file. Dean watched as she shakily opened the file, this brave woman who probably had family and friends and a future, who was now fearing for her life, all because of him. Whose coworkers were all dead, because of him. None of it felt real. 

The officer stared blankly at the opened file for a moment, not processing what she was seeing. When her eyes finally cleared, they narrowed before widening again, and she glanced over at Snotty, who was watching the whole situation with a mixture of fear, confusion, and… and interest? What the fuck was this guy’s deal, anyway?

“Well?” Abaddon mocked. “Aren’t you going to tell us what it says?”

Officer Berkeley swallowed. “Devin Peter Little,” she began weakly. “Born April 12, 1989, son of--”

“No, no, not all those boring little details,” Abaddon interrupted. Berkeley flinched back, but Snotty had perked up, and was staring intensely at the file. “Skip ahead to the good stuff, like, say… what was he arrested for?”

“Serial rape and murder in the first degree,” Berkeley whispered, never looking up from the file.

Suddenly there was a loud  _ clang!  _ as Snotty threw himself against the bars separating him from the officer, rage overtaking his features. “You’re wrong!” He yelled. “I didn’t do it! It wasn’t  _ me _ !”

The officer startled, dropping the file, and Dean watched with a detached sense of dread. Things were starting to make a horrible sort of sense, and he didn’t like the direction this situation seemed to be taking. 

“Classic case of narcissistic psychopathy,” Abaddon sang, ignoring the prisoner’s -- Devin’s -- outburst. “You see Dean, this guy had a girlfriend, but he just couldn’t seem to stop cheating! Not that any of his other… friends… were willing participants. And when his girlfriend found out, things got messy, didn’t they, Devin?”

“Who the hell are you talking to, man?” Devin seethed, looking on the verge of a complete psychotic break. 

“Not that he’ll admit to it,” Abaddon continued, unbothered. “Pretty far past saving, if you ask me. But this nice little lady over here…” she gestured at the officer with her gun. “She seems pretty innocent, don’t you think? Has her whole life ahead of her.”

Berkeley raised her chin defiantly from her kneeled position on the floor, her lips trembling but not letting out a sound. Dawning horror began to overcome Dean’s shocked stupor as he realized what was going on.

Abaddon was playing with them. All of them. And someone was about to die. 

“So now it’s time to choose,” Abaddon said, voice growing steely. “You have sixty seconds to shoot the girl. If you do, I’ll leave Devin all locked up -- or maybe I’ll just kill him. Either way, he’s not getting out of here. If you don’t, I’ll let him go, maybe even give him a nice new job in a trafficking ring.”

The definitive  _ click  _ of the gun’s safety disengaging resonated throughout the room like cannon fire. 

“Choose.”

The gun started shaking in Dean’s hand, which he now, apparently, had control over. His face twisted as he realized he could move his trigger finger and control his expressions, nothing more. He only had two options, and Abaddon had made sure of it. 

_ “Fifty-five seconds,”  _ Abaddon said helpfully. Dean did not appreciate it.

He forced himself to look down at Officer Berkeley. She was staring at him in fear, but also confusion, having noted the change in his demeanor. Dean took a deep breath, forcing himself to give her what was hopefully a comforting smile. “Hey, um, officer. What’s your name? Your first name.”

“Amanda,” she answered warily.

“Amanda. Okay, okay, we’re gonna get out of this, Amanda. I’ll figure out a way out of this.”

Dean squeezed his eyes shut, deliberately not looking at the human monster watching them intently. If he could just get a little control over his hand, just enough to throw the gun,  _ please God -- _

“What are you talking about? You’re in control of this situation,” Amanda said, voice gaining strength. Jesus, she probably thought he had some sort of multiple personality disorder. “No one has to get hurt.”

Dean tried to shake his head, couldn’t, ended up giving her another lame smile. Or maybe he’d let out a sob instead. He wasn’t really sure. “No, no, you don’t get it, I can’t --”

_ “Thirty seconds.” _

Dean readjusted his grip on the gun’s handle, his hand sweating but unable to drop it. He… he couldn’t shoot this girl. She was innocent, and she seemed like a good person, was maybe even a hero. He couldn’t sacrifice her for any future victims this Devin guy might have.

Couldn’t he? Was her life worth the lives of all those who might be assaulted or killed in the future?

_ Of course it is, _ a voice in the back of his head argued. But what if he was just saving her to spare his own conscience? How much blood would be on his hands if Devin got out?

_ “Ten seconds.” _

Dean met Amanda's eyes again. She was still kneeling on the ground, hands clenched in her lap. She looked slowly at the gun shaking in his grip, still pointed at her head. 

_ “Three.” _

Amanda closed her eyes. A single tear rolled down her cheek.

_ “Two.” _

Dean’s finger tightened on the trigger, and his vision blurred.

_ “One.” _

Dean released his hold on the gun, letting it go slack in his hand. He shut his eyes, tears streaking down his own face.

He couldn’t do it. 

_ “Disappointing.” _

And just like that, any control he might’ve had was gone, and Abaddon was pulling the trigger.

Amanda fell to the ground, and Dean only felt numb. 

**NOW**

“Heya, Sammy.”

Abaddon bared Dean’s blood-covered teeth in the approximation of a smile, and Sam shivered at the implications. He could only guess what kind of horror show he would see if he walked into that precinct. 

Sam clenched his jaw, trying not to let his desperation show. He had to keep his head in the game, for Dean. “Let him go. Now.”

“After all the fun we just had?” Abaddon laughed. “I don’t think he even wants to! Or maybe he’s just finally cracked.”

Cas tensed next to him, and Sam couldn’t say he felt much better, but he swallowed down his trepidation, mentally preparing the exorcism they’d come up with. “Exorcizamus--”

Abaddon flapped Dean’s hand at them, sending both crashing onto the asphalt and knocking Cas out cold, from what Sam could tell. “C’mon, boys, you should know better than that by now!” Dean’s eyes blinked shut green, blinked open black. “You can’t exorcise me. You can’t kill me. So what’s your plan here, fellas? What are a subpar hunter and a broken angel going to do to  _ me? _ ” 

She warped Dean’s voice with every word, stalking towards them with an unnatural version of his bowlegged swagger before stopping at Sam’s feet. “You know, you’ve been a real pain in my ass, Sam,” Abaddon said, and Sam gasped when what felt like a two-ton pressure settled on his chest, flattening him to the ground and driving the breath from his lungs. “I would love to kill you with Dean’s own hands. It’s so fun when he screams and  _ begs _ for me to stop.” The pressure intensified before dissipating completely. “But unfortunately, that’s not part of the plan,” Abaddon sighed.

She stepped back as Sam rolled onto his stomach, panting and gasping for air. Abaddon grinned down at him, and the expression was so reminiscent of Dean that Sam had to look away. “Later, Sammy.”

When Sam looked up again, Abaddon was gone. 

And so was Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, you got me, this was just an excuse to torture Dean some more. This is kind of the climax of Dean's possession by Abaddon, so the main plot will begin to move forward again some next chapter (but, of course, there will still be lots of Dean angst).
> 
> I hope you enjoyed! I would appreciate any and all feedback you can give me.


End file.
